Moth to the Flame (21 page)

Jared froze, then melted. His arms came around her, holding her close, hardly able to believe those lips were real. That her small hands clinging on to his waist were actual flesh and blood. That the touch of her long hair against his face wasn't just a mirage.

‘Alicia,' he murmured, cupping her sweet face in his hands, looking up into those sparkling brilliant blue eyes. ‘What's going on girl?' he said softly. his voice and eyes sharpened, ‘where's your ring?' For he'd noticed now that her hand was wonderfully, marvellously, miraculously bare of that damned Rock of Gibraltar.

‘I finally managed to get it off,' Alicia said, still not sure whether to laugh, cry, or do both.

Sniffing a little, wearily she pushed a long lock of black hair back from her face and let the whole story pour out of her. First her brother's perfidy, because that was easier and less painful to explain. And then, as Jared grew slowly more pale and appalled, the story of what had really happened to her at Warrington. Rupert's dreadful family. The tale of the ring and how it had swollen her finger, making it impossible to get off. And, finally, her lunchtime meeting with Rupert. ‘So you see,' she finally said quietly, her tear-stained
cheeks
pale, but her voice more composed now, ‘it sounds as if he has a history of mental illness. And he won't agree to go to see a psychiatrist. I think he's terrified of them. And whenever I try to tell him that we're not engaged, he just won't listen to me. He keeps saying that he needs me. Oh Jared, what am I going to do?'

Jared reached for one of her hands and slowly drew it to his lips. He kissed the centre of her palm tenderly. Then looked at her out of loving dark brown eyes. ‘You mean,' he corrected her softly, ‘what are we going to do?'

She smiled, a tremulous, exhausted, but radiant smile. ‘Thank you,' she said softly. Simply.

Jared nodded. ‘Well . . . we could talk to the new Experimental Psychology don. Or . . . who's Rupert's Moral Tutor, do you know?' But Alicia didn't.

‘We'll find out,' Jared said quietly. ‘I wonder whether the Reverend Rex Jimson-Clark could help . . .'

Alicia felt so much better. Not because Jared had an instant answer (who on earth would, given circumstances like these?) But because she now knew she was not alone. She felt safer. Comforted. She ran a hand lightly up Jared's chest, then felt a questing hardness rise up beneath her. She flushed, realising that Jared himself was blushing.

He made to move her off his lap, but Alicia
dug
her fingers into his arm. ‘No!' she said quickly. ‘I . . . I don't want to move.'

She leaned forward, undoing his shirt buttons. Jared's eyes widened. ‘Alicia,' he said hoarsely. Warningly.

Alicia shook her head. ‘No,' she said again, enigmatically. She dipped her head, running her tongue beneath the opening in his shirt, licking his warm, slightly salty skin.

Jared dragged in a ragged breath. ‘Alicia,' he said again, more softly this time. ‘Have you ever . . . ?'

‘No,' Alicia said again, and smiled.

Jared groaned. ‘Alicia,' he said again, his voice a mere croak this time. Alicia laughed, feeling giddy. She reached for his belt, undoing it, and unzipping his jeans. She watched his wonderful eyes darken to midnight.

‘I don't . . .' Jared began, but then she slipped her hand inside his jeans, and with the side of her knuckles began to gently, but firmly, rub him. His words were cut off with a sudden gasp. His eyelashes drifted closed. He felt his arms come up, to grab the old-fashioned bedhead behind him, his hands curling around the iron bars there in a compulsive, tight grip.

His body began to heat up, as if someone had turned on a sunlamp. Alicia got up, but only to slip out of her boots and panties. Through narrowed eyes, Jared watched her,
knowing
he should do something to stop her, but knowing, too, that he wasn't going to. She was wearing a warm, brown calf-length woollen skirt and when she climbed back over him, he caught a glimpse of slender white thigh and the mysterious dark triangle at the confluence of her legs. He swallowed hard, and lifted his back off the bed as she struggled to pull down his jeans and briefs. Alicia had never seen a naked man before, and, for a long, heart-stopping minute she simply stared at the vulnerable male power of him.

Then, knowing that nothing had ever felt so right, she tenderly took him in her hands and lowered herself on to him.

She winced as a dart of pain shot through her as he entered her, and then it was gone, quickly forgotten. Leaving her only with only the most pleasurable of sensations. She could feel him inside her, filling her, touching something deep within the coils of her femininity, which she just knew was going to drive her wild. Wonderfully wild.

Jared gasped and bucked, the tightness of her a molten, sweet captivity that satisfied everything that he was.

‘Alicia,' he said again, beginning to move slowly, carefully, gently thrusting his hips up and then down, introducing her to the dance of love; all the while, his eyes were fixed on her face, alert to any sign of fear, or pain, or withdrawal. But there was only a growing
smile,
a growing, sweet expression of concentrated pleasure as she began to ride him with eager confidence, with breathtaking ease, her hands curling around his hips in a possessive grip, her head thrown back, her raven locks tumbling over her shoulders.

She could feel her toes digging into the mattress as the tightening, spiralling intensity drove her upwards, towards the ultimate fulfilment. She threw her head back even further, the line of her throat taut and tense.

Jared's own head began to roll, from side to side, on the pillow, passion highlighting his cheekbones.

He bit his lip, clenched his jaw, held back, held back, held back until he felt her spasm atop him. She cried out his name then, a pure, sweet, uninhibited sound. ‘Jared!'

Jared felt tears spring to his eyes as she collapsed on top of him, as he felt his own climax claim him. His arms came out to catch her as she fell. As his arms would now always come out to catch her whenever she fell . . .

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Davina reached for the dark blue velvet scarf, and draped it around her neck. She was wearing a navy blue dress, in a material which clung like a tenacious lover to every rounded
curve
of hip and breast.

With her very blonde silky hair, and cat-green eyes complemented by greeny-blue eyeshadow and mascara, she was the centre of attention as she walked into the half-full theatre half-an-hour later, Gareth Lacey by her side, escorting her to one of the best seats in the front row.

The wife of the Provost of a neighbouring college was wearing silk and pearls. St Bede's own don in Oriental Studies was wearing a traditional kimono with diamonds. Men, inevitably, wore black tie. The St Bede's Hilary Term Play was always an excuse to push the boat out. Before it had even begun, the Jared Cowan/Alicia Norman play was socially the biggest hit in many years.

Already, Neville Norman, who'd arrived early, was being fêted by the contingent from the local press and media.

Gareth, aware that almost every male eye in the room was fixed on Davina as they followed her progress to their seats, found himself smiling slightly. For all the no doubt erotic fantasies going on in lots of those male minds right at that moment, he doubted any one of them had any true concept of the kind of woman Davina actually was. He knew that, beneath that bold fashionable front lay shyness. Underneath that strident intellect was—to use an old-fashioned phrase—a thoroughly decent human being; capable of
great
depths of compassion and human understanding. Behind that sophisticated, well-travelled, world-weary facade, lay the woman who'd worked for a charity in Africa in for over a year in appalling conditions. A woman who still donated ten per cent of her earnings (big or small) to charity, because of her hatred of social injustice and poverty.

And, above all, Gareth knew that she was a woman capable of more emotion than many of those men watching her so avidly could possibly appreciate. Or deal with.

Davina sat down and shot him a careful look out of the corner of her eye. He was saying nothing about her refusal to move in with him. Hadn't even attempted to persuade her to change her mind. And it worried her. Was he tired of her already? The thought made her burn with impotent fury, and froze her in pain. Never had a man got under her skin like this.

Gareth leaned back in his chair, a devastatingly handsome picture of maleness. The blackness of his dinner jacket, teamed with a dazzling white shirt, highlighted the dark silvery grey of his eyes, and the shining darkness of his hair. He slipped on his reading glasses to study the souvenir programme whilst Davina had to physically fight the urge to move across the seat, sit on his lap, loop her arms around his neck and demand to know that he still loved her.

Instead
she forced herself to think about Gavin Brock. If all had gone well, he'd already handed in his essay, with the page from the stolen exam paper concealed inside it. Even now, for all she knew, his teacher might be marking his work, finding it . . .

*          *          *

Backstage, the cast were already dressed, and Alicia watched them in growing alarm. ‘Relax,' Emily gave her friend a wide smile. ‘It'll be just fine.'

‘Ten minutes to curtain!' The call went out, and somebody giggled nervously. Alicia could stand it no longer.

‘I'm going to find Jared,' she murmured, and set off. Jared, dressed in a smart pair of black trousers, and a well-ironed blue shirt that looked oddly endearing on him, was talking to the prompter. Jared saw her, and his face lit up. He hurried across to her, taking her hands in his the moment they met. They felt cold. ‘You all right?' he asked softly.

‘Huh-huh,' she shook her head. ‘I'm terrified.'

‘You look stunning,' he told her sincerely, hoping to distract her. And she did. She was dressed in a dark trouser suit, with wide lapels, and a very feminine, cream silk camisole underneath. Her long black hair was swept up in a mass of curls at the back of her head, with
two
single tendrils falling past her ears, and framing her lovely face. Her blue eyes were rounded with fear and excitement.

‘Have you seen . . .' Jared began, lowering his voice instinctively, ‘Rupert?'

‘Not since this morning,' she admitted quickly. ‘Jared, I think he noticed I wasn't wearing the ring.'

Jared nodded. He looked worried, but he smiled reassuringly. ‘Well. We always knew he might. Have you sent it back to Warrington yet?'

‘No. I have to send it by Registered Mail and I haven't had a chance to get to the post office yet. But . . .'

‘There you are!' The cultured voice had them both jumping apart. Jared's face firmed as he looked up to see Rupert approaching. He was dressed in the character of Sam Blake, the lover and murderer of the play's victim.

‘Rupert,' Alicia said, glad beyond measure of Jared's presence beside her. ‘All set?'

‘Of course,' he said pointedly, glancing coldly at Jared. ‘Hadn't you better give your pep-talk to the others?' Jared smiled, but shook his head. He had no intention of leaving Alicia alone with the other man. Ever. ‘It can wait. Besides, they know what they have to do. You've got the best part in the play, you know. We're all relying on you.' As he said it, he wondered nervously if he done the right thing, channelling Rupert's attention to the play.

Rupert
beamed. ‘Of course, I won't let you down,' he turned to Alicia, stepping closer, his eyes caressing her.

Alicia had to make herself look at him. Had to swallow back an absurd feeling of guilt. She and Jared had found out that day that Rupert's Moral Tutor was in fact, the Reverend Rex Jimson-Clarke, and they had an appointment to see him tomorrow.

‘Well. I suppose I'd better take my seat out front,' Alicia said, edging towards the side exit. But as she did so, Rupert glanced down pointedly at her hand.

‘Have you lost my ring, Alicia?' he asked, then shrugged. ‘It's quite valuable. But I won't be angry,' he promised her.

Alicia swallowed hard. ‘Er . . . no, I haven't lost it,' she said quietly. ‘It was . . . too tight. It hurt my finger.'

‘Oh?' Rupert's face brightened. ‘Well, in that case, I can have it made bigger.'

Jared stepped in firmly and gave Alicia's hand a comforting squeeze.

‘We really have very little time left,' he said, carefully keeping his voice level. ‘I must insist you take your place with the others, Rupert.'

Rupert glanced at him, a rather puzzled look in his eyes. ‘Place?' he echoed blankly.

‘On stage—for the play,' Jared prompted him. Still Rupert looked puzzled. And suddenly, both Jared and Alicia had the same agonised thought at exactly the same moment.

He's
forgotten the play!

Then his face seemed to clear. ‘Oh. Places! Right.' He smiled brightly. ‘Don't worry darling,' he stepped forward and, before either of them could stop him, kissed Alicia briefly on the forehead. ‘I'll be magnificent for you.'

As he moved back he noticed that they were holding hands. Why were they holding hands? Alicia was his, wasn't she? He moved slowly, clearly confused.

Rupert let himself be led by the director, but his mind whirled. She was his, wasn't she? He rubbed his forehead, puzzled. He could have sworn he'd given her a ring. At the Ball. The Ball had happened, hadn't it? Sometimes, he knew, he could forget things. Whole days, sometimes. But he was over that now. He couldn't have imagined it all . . .

He felt his head begin to ache.

‘Rupert . . . Everything will be all right, you know,' Jared said softly, his voice heavy with pity, and felt a sudden wave of anger against the man's father. What kind of man would send his son, in a condition like this, away from home, and into an environment as full of pressure as Oxford?