Mirrorlight (5 page)

Possessive.

The breath caught in her throat as she recognized the expression. His desire called to her, made her feel beautiful in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. His gaze had fixed on the slightly damp swell of her breasts, where the edge of the towel clung. The look in his eyes was hungry with desire.

Flushed with the same giddy desire that he felt, her hands moved against the edge of the towel, and then she slowly, deliberately pulled it from her body and let it drop to her feet.

She swore she could almost hear his quick inhalation of breath, or maybe it was just her own. His stance changed, his hands curling into fists against the edge of the mirror and bracing. His clothes were concealing and loose, a dark tunic belted over tan breeches.

She approached the mirror, placing her fists against his on the glass, sucking in a trembling breath. Everything in her screamed to cover up her body, to hide, to blush like a madwoman and run away in modesty. The only thing that kept her there, that kept her tightly-wound body still before the mirror was the heat and intensity of his gaze. Her entire body quivered.

Cora leaned forward, as if she could touch her lips against the mirror and somehow convey her words better. The tips of her breasts brushed against the cold mirror, hardened, and she saw his gaze dip there, saw his fists uncurl and his fingers move towards those teasing tips, as if he could touch them if he tried.

“Aric,” she spoke, and the word went unheard, his gaze not on her face.

Disappointment flowed through her, frustrated at her inability to communicate with him, to share that she knew who he was.

But then he looked up a moment later, and she whispered his name again, and the possessive heat in his eyes made way for wonderment. He gave a small nod and repeated the syllable, his lips moving like her own. A hint of a smile curved his mouth and he spoke something else that she couldn’t follow.

“I learned your name,” she said shyly, wishing desperately that he could hear her speak. “I looked through all the books until I found your coat of arms, and I found your name. I had to find out, to discover who you really were.” She tasted his name against her lips. “Aric de Beauchamp, heir to these lands in 1193. That’s you, isn’t it?” He began to speak again, his lips moving at a rapid pace that she couldn’t follow, his gaze darting over her face.

“Tsk,” she said, and a laugh bubbled from her throat. “No fair talking and me not being able to hear you.” Cora ran a finger down the front of the mirror, and then tapped it. She pointed at his shirt and brushed her breasts against the mirror again, gasping at the chilly sensation that ran across her nipples. “First me, now you. I want to see you naked.” It took two more gestures before he understood what she was miming to him. Part of Cora wondered if he would dismiss her request and continue to feast upon her body only, or if he’d give in willingly to her request.

Of course, she had her answer a moment later when he took a step back from the mirror and began to drop his belt. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him undress, pulling the long tunic over his head, and she sucked in a breath when his naked torso was revealed.

Long scars covered his torso, one or two the bright red of a new wound, more of them the white trace of injuries several years old. He had a massive span to his shoulders, almost like a wrestler, the thick triangle of his shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist with no fat on it, only ripples of muscle. She could see his ribs—perhaps he was a little too thin, the result of his return from the Crusades?—and a dark tan covered his body, striping his skin between neck and waist.

The drawstring of his leggings hung loose, dipping below his navel and revealing a dark trail of hair that led downward, down to a rather explicitly large bulge in his leggings.

Oh my. Her eyes felt scalded from the sight, her blush rising. She should turn away but…she wanted to see more.

She wanted to see everything.

His lips moved again as he spoke, and he moved back toward the mirror, laying one of his palms flat against the spot where she’d brushed her nipple moments before. She leaned forward as well, pressing the full globes of her breasts against the mirror’s chilly surface, and flattened her own palms against the mirror as well. Her face close to the mirror’s surface, her breath left soft, sultry clouds on the surface.

Aric closed his eyes, as if the sight of her naked body pressed against the mirror was almost too much to bear. His palm remained anchored in place, and she could almost swear that she felt the heat of his hand through the mirror once more. Almost.

His hand slid down to the waist of his trousers, then inside as he ran his hand over the length of his cock. Her gaze slid there as well. “Oh,” she breathed as he adjusted the long, hard length of it. Granted, she couldn’t see the full length, but she could tell that it was a rather magnificent cock, thick and long and filling his breeches quite admirably. He seemed to be perfect, this man in the mirror.

Too bad he wasn’t real.

The thought struck her like a fist and she flinched backward. Who was she kidding?

This was a sweet misery—to be able to see this beautiful, doomed man and do nothing to help him, or touch him the way she wanted to touch him, to have him touch her the way she wanted to be touched.

It was beyond cruel. Cora shook her head and blinked back tears. “I can’t do this,” she whispered hoarsely, straightening. She pulled away from the mirror and gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

With that, she leaned over and picked up her towel again, wrapping it around her body once more and tucking her nudity safely away. Once again, she went for a relationship that was just too difficult, had too many obstacles. She couldn’t do this.

Unhappy, she glanced back at the mirror. He was still there, the sad look returning to his face, as if he understood her own miserable state. Aric raised his palm as she watched, the same flat-hand gesture that they had been using to greet one another, his fingers slightly spread against the glass. With a faint smile touching her mouth—whether of sadness or apology she couldn’t say—Cora moved forward and placed her palm against his, matching her hand to his, fixing her fingers so they would slide through his own, if they were able to touch. Her eyes met his again, sad and apologetic.

Light flared. Then the glass melted away beneath their hands, and it wasn’t hard surface that she touched anymore, but the rough, warm callus of his hands. Startled, her gaze flew to her hand, and before she could react, his fingers curled around her own, locking them.

Through the mirror.

With a frightened gasp, Cora jerked backward, ripping her hand from his. Just as quickly as it had happened, the mirrorlight faded, and she watched his fingers sink back through the other side of the mirror and disappear. She stared at her own reflection in the now-streaked mirror in a mixture of shock and wonderment.

Had she imagined it? No, she’d seen his fingers curl over her own, felt the hot, almost fevered press of his coarse, callused palm against her own.

What did it mean?

He didn’t come back.

Cora waited all day by the mirror, anxious and pacing. When he didn’t show and her feet began to hurt, she pulled up one of the antique Louis XIV chairs in front of the mirror and sat, waiting, staring at her reflection in the glass.

Nothing. It was just a mirror—no light, no ghost. He wasn’t coming back. She’d never get a second chance to see if she’d just imagined it, or if she’d truly been able to touch him through the mirror. Hours passed, and the mirror remained just that—a long, lonely slab of glass, not a portal to another world or time.

Perhaps it was all in her imagination, then. The thought was a depressing one. She’d felt something electric between them when he’d touched her fingers, and knew that lost look on his face. They were kindred souls. She could feel it.

The doorbell rang, startling her out of her chair. Cora pulled a bathrobe on over her pajamas and moved to the front door, pulling it open when she saw it was Muffin.

“You look like hell,” the old woman said cheerfully as she stepped into the hall, carrying a large thermos. “Not sleeping?”

Cora eyed the thermos and brushed a hand through her tangled hair. “Something like that. Just having a difficult time sleeping in a strange bed.” That, and the fact that her dreams were full of naughty thoughts of the man in the mirror. Of his green-eyed gaze on her skin, of his hand grasping hers through the mirror and pulling her naked body against his, feeling every muscle against her skin…

Muffin waved the thermos at her and trotted toward the kitchens without being asked.

“It’s lucky for you that I made you some nice chicken noodle soup, then. Come sit down and I’ll make you a bowl.”

She followed the elderly woman—dressed in a hot pink velour pantsuit today—and sat at one of the stools lined up against the island countertop. Cora propped her chin up on her hand and she sighed.

Muffin tut-tutted at her and placed a bowl on the counter, then poured the contents of the thermos in with a thick, goopy splash that made Cora wince. “Such a sad sigh. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

She took the spoon offered to her and shrugged. “I’m just going crazy. I think. Last night I imagined that I saw the guy in the mirror again.” Cora began to stir the spoon in the soup, watching the noodles float past. To her surprise, something dark and heavy was at the bottom of her bowl. She nudged it with her spoon, and then pushed it to the side of the bowl and lifted it.

A drumstick. As in, fried chicken in her chicken noodle soup.

“Eat up, dearie!” Muffin said, digging in to her own bowl. She slurped, a long noodle disappearing between bright pink-painted lips. “So you saw the man again?” Cora poked at the bizarre soup, not really surprised to see Muffin fish out a chicken wing from hers. “I did see him,” she admitted, then paused over her next words. Should she admit the rest? She needed to tell someone to ensure that she wasn’t crazy. “I…think I touched him too, but I’m not sure. It might be my imagination.” Muffin said nothing, just continued to eat.

“I sat in front of the mirror all day,” Cora rushed on. “Waiting for him to show again, to see if I’m crazy, or imagining things, or what. But he won’t show. I don’t know why he won’t show.”

“You’re just confused.”

Cora stared down at her soup glumly. “Maybe so.”

“No, I mean you’re just confused,” Muffin said. “Confusion’s not a very strong emotion. You need something bigger to draw him out. The mirrorlight is attracted to strong emotion.”

She frowned at the old woman, thinking hard. He had appeared when she’d been crying the first time, but the second? Third? She couldn’t remember. “Strong emotion?” Mabel nodded, still chewing on the soggy chicken wing. “Magic is always attracted to such things.”

Magic? Oh lord, now she was as crazy as the old woman. Cora put her spoon down in her bowl and smiled. “You’re humoring me, aren’t you? I probably just imagined the whole thing.”

The old woman’s eyes were shrewd as they watched Cora. “What do you have to lose, girl?”

“My mind?”

“That’s cute,” Muffin said. “You think you still have it.” She had a point.

#

Cora returned to the mirror after Muffin left, wrapping her robe tight around her body and thinking about what the old woman had said. Was she going crazy in this big house by herself? Granted, time alone in the castle was preferable to spending time alone in her apartment back at home, but she couldn’t help but wonder at what she had seen in the mirror, or if it was simply another dream that she hadn’t been able to sort from reality.

Muffin had believed her. Well, sort of. She hadn’t argued with Cora when she said she’d seen a man in the mirror and touched him. But then again, Muffin was a few fries short of a Happy Meal herself. Was it a good thing if one crazy person thought another was normal?

The old woman had suggested that Cora try and pull Aric back to her with strong emotion. It didn’t seem like the worst idea in the world.

So Cora pulled her chair back close to the mirror and sat down again, thinking hard.

What would incite strong emotion? She knew she’d been sad over his fate before, but that sadness had gone away, leaving behind curiosity—a much milder sort of emotion. She wasn’t overly happy or sad…she wasn’t anything at the moment except nervous. Nervous that Aric wouldn’t come back.

She wanted him to be real. And she really wanted to touch him again.

Just thinking about it made her skin shiver with want, and she got up from the chair and paced restlessly. Her robe flapped as she walked, and she tugged it closed, thinking.

She’d been almost naked the last time he’d shown up, hadn’t she? Fresh out of the shower? Well, she’d get naked again. Cora stripped off her robe and pajamas without a second thought and tossed them onto the bed. It was cool in the room, though, so after a moment of shivering, she pulled the light satiny robe over her shoulders again and sat back down in the chair, feeling a twinge of anxiety.

She needed a big burst of emotion, but what? She stared at her reflection in the mirror, watching the rise and fall of her naked breasts, and then paused. A thought occurred to her, followed quickly by another nervous tremor. No way. She shouldn’t.

She couldn’t. He might be watching.

But…if she couldn’t get him to show up…it wouldn’t matter, would it? This could prove once and for all if he would arrive or not.

Slowly, hesitantly, her desire to see him won over her shyness.

Her hand slid to the curls of her sex. Cora took a deep breath, pictured Aric, and then brushed her fingers over her flesh, sliding one between the soft folds. She was already wet, just thinking about doing this for him. Thinking about him touching her like this.

Her fingertip glided over the damp seam and then dipped downward, stroking over the sensitive flesh. A soft hiss escaped between her teeth as a tremor of pleasure rocked through her.

Cora grew bolder. Her robe fell to her elbows, pooling there in a satiny fall. One leg lifted and she tossed it over the arm of the chair, spreading her thighs wide. Both hands now slid to her sex, wet with need. Thinking of the man she’d seen in the mirror, she parted the lips of her pussy and used one finger to lightly dance along the wetness, circling her clit. Her reflection stared back at her, sleepy eyed with desire and she bit her lip as her fingers grazed her clit again, thinking of the man and wishing it was his hand on her.