Passionate (24 page)

She took his breath away. She so boldly, so playfully, embraced her passionate self.

He was lost, and knew it.

When she slid down, leaving a trail of kisses, and tentatively took his nipple between her lips he had to close his eyes, clench his hands, trying to contain his reaction. Her tongue flicked against him and sent his desire spiraling.

With a deep groan he pulled her up, fastened his lips on hers, and feasted on the sweetness of her mouth. He had to end this soon, before he lost all control.

His hand moved down her body, dipped under her skirts to rest on the soft skin of her hip, just above her drawers. He began to draw little spirals with his fingertips, each caress moving lower, charting new territory. Lily’s breathing quickened and he could feel her attention focused there, where his hand gently cupped her.

Her drawers fastened with a ribbon. Tugging, he loosened them, let his hand slide down against her heated skin. He brushed his palm over the curly tuft of hair between her legs and she shivered. He gave her a moment to adjust to his touch, then began to stroke—a slow, almost infinitesimal movement of his fingers, softly fluttering against her.

She gasped against his lips. Her thighs opened for him as he rubbed gently, parted her, explored her folds, then coasted up to her tight nubbin and brushed lightly. A low cry sounded in her throat. He swallowed it and continued to enjoy her mouth.

His finger went to her entrance then slowly, slowly he penetrated her, thumb still circling her most sensitive spot. She was fiery velvet, soft and wet. He played her, coaxing sighs and moans from her like a master musician bent over his instrument, using all the skills at his command. Mouth fused to hers he began to increase the pace, tongue thrusting in time to his finger, thumb teasing her, coaxing her, winding her tight, tighter.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulled hard, holding him against her as she tensed, shuddered. A cry of pure pleasure tore from her and she arched against him. He could feel her pulsing against his hand, hard, then subsiding.

Lily fell back against the cushions, letting the languorous aftershocks ripple through her. She’d had no idea.

But James obviously had. She opened her eyes to see him gazing at her, the amber lights in his eyes sparkling. He looked at her searchingly.

“Yes,” she smiled up at him. “Oh, yes.”

Some deep emotion streaked through his expression, gone too quickly for her to catch. He gathered her close and she lay her head on his chest, feeling completely relaxed as he stroked her hair, twined a strand about his finger. His heartbeat thudded under her ear and she smelled the sharp, masculine tang of him.

“Thank you.” His voice vibrated through her.

“For what? It’s you who has given me this whole wonderful afternoon.” Tears now ached in her throat.

His arm tightened around her and she nestled in, soaked up the sensation of being held so intimately, skin to skin, his fingers playing in her hair. She splayed her hand over his chest, felt the rise and fall of his breath. Perhaps she dozed. He shifted beneath her, held her a moment longer, then sat.

“Time is passing,” he said.

“Of course.” She lifted onto her elbows, watched him don his shirt, remembering the feel of those strong, smooth muscles under her hands. Already yearning to feel them again. She wanted him again, lying beside her. He had given her such pleasure.

He shook his coat out and donned it, then bent to press a lingering kiss against her lips. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She nodded, watched his tall form move to the door, silhouetted briefly as he left.

Sitting up, she waited for a sense of shame to descend, some shock at her behavior, but none was forthcoming. Instead she felt light inside as though she had swallowed a star and it was still glowing within her.

He had evoked such sensations in her—so very different from that other time, the awkward grappling in the garden with her art tutor. James was so different—so splendid. And now they were lovers, after weeks spent thinking of him, capturing his image under her hand, dreaming about his kisses. She already wanted more.

Lily buttoned her dress and began re-pinning her hair into its coil. What now? She could not deny the way he made her feel so breathlessly, perfectly alive. They were here together in this exotic land full of orange blossoms and warm sun. England seemed so far away.

England. Her thoughts skittered away, but too late. Always it remained like a worrisome dark cloud on her horizon. James had made her no promises, offered no alternatives for the future. He had only kissed her, delighted her with dizzying new sensations. He was charming, no doubt, but his intentions remained a mystery. It was foolish to expect more. Whatever they had only existed now, for this one perfect moment. She stood quickly and shook out her skirts. The bargain with her mother could not be erased by an afternoon of kisses.

“Lily.” James was back. He held out a spray of orange blossoms, a grin tugging the corners of his lips.

She took it and breathed its rich perfume. Oranges would always remind her of this day. A bittersweet thought. Gathering her sketchbook and pencils, she turned. “Let us go.”

He nodded then reached for her hand. Their fingers remained clasped as they descended the stairs. When they reached the bottom she forced her fingers to let go, determinedly going to sketch a nearby mosaic of an elephant.

When Richard and Ahmed returned, full of apologies for losing track of the hours, she had managed several quick sketches. The mosaics were every bit as lovely as before, but her heart was not in her work. How could it be with him in the same room, smiling when she glanced over at him? It was a relief to close her sketchbook, to bid Ahmed and the Bey’s palace farewell, to leave the courtyard filled with blossoms and light behind.

Back at the hotel, James escorted her to her room. “I’ll see you at dinner.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, lingering.

“Yes, at dinner. It was a lovely day, James.” Closing the door, Lily sighed deeply. The end of a lovely day.

“You’re back.” Isabelle jumped up from the writing table.

“I’ve a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

“Letters from home! The mail packet just arrived. Here, these are yours.”

“And who have you heard from?” Lily took the stack her cousin thrust at her.

“Charlie Thomas, for one. But his correspondence is so boring and immature. He prattles on about nothing much for simply pages, and his hand is a dreadful scrawl. I could barely finish reading it.” Isabelle glanced over at her. “Aren’t you going to see who they’re from?”

“Of course.” Lily stood, holding the letters loosely for several heartbeats. She began to flip through them and her hands stilled, halting on the creamy envelope addressed in a familiar curling script. Throat dry, she moved to her bed and sat. The vellum was napped and velvety. She ran her fingers over it.

“Well?”

“Don’t hover, Isabelle. Please.”

Her cousin flounced back to the desk, and Lily slit the envelope and unfolded the pages.

My Dearest Lily,

Wonderful news! Lord Buckley is positively disposed to a union and is expected home by June. Such a perfect time of year for a wedding. Your father has agreed that Fernhaven chapel will be entirely suitable. I think white peonies, don’t you? The countess and I are drawing up the guest list next week. It is so exciting!

Do make sure to wear your bonnet and keep out of the sun. Use that cream I sent with you, and be careful about what you eat. Travel can be so taxing. Tell your uncle to wind up his trip and have you home by mid-May. We must have time to finish fitting your wedding gown!

Your fondest,
Mother

Lily smoothed the creases her tight fingers had left on the paper.

What had she done? How could she have spent a dreamy, honey-soaked afternoon with James, when this was her future? A small, wounded sound escaped her.

Isabelle looked up sharply. “Is everything all right?”

Lily swallowed. “Perfectly.”

She walked to the window and looked out over the inner courtyard of the hotel. The sky was pale blue deepening to indigo in the east.

She was as wanton as she had feared these many years.

Hadn’t she allowed her young art tutor to have her? And wasn’t she allowing—no, she thought back to the Bey’s palace—wasn’t she
encouraging
James to take liberties even though he had given her no hint that he contemplated a future with her? She already missed his touch. It was wicked.

She
was wicked, for there was no repentance in her.

Lily folded the letter in careful squares and reached for the small brass box she had brought with her. She tucked the letter in beside the gold locket—the locket that had remained unworn since the day Countess Buckley had fastened it about her neck. Quickly, firmly, she closed the lid and pushed the box back out of sight.

The dining room of the hotel Le Palais was full, the chandeliers overhead sparkled brilliantly, and a babble of English and French conversation filled the airy space, blending with the clink of crystal and cutlery. It could be England, except for the exotically arched doors and windows and the delicious air wafting through. It had rained earlier in the evening, and the air was heavy with fragrance—jasmine and orange blossom. Lightning still flared over the mountains to the west.

“Lily.” James eyes followed her as she entered and he bent low over her hand.

“Good evening.” Her pulse fluttered wildly at his touch, even as she fought to still her emotions. It was not fair to James—or herself—to continue on like this. She pulled her hand away.

“Are you well?” Concern darkened his brown eyes.

“Quite,” she said, moving past him to take the seat beside her aunt.

Uncle Edward leaned forward. “So, Huntington, how was your trip to the marketplace? Find us a guide?”

“A fellow named Khalil. How are your preparations going?”

“Very well. Indeed, I would say they are virtually complete—if such a state were possible.”

“Good.” James smiled, but there was something hard in his expression. “After this morning’s work, we’d do well to depart as soon as possible. Tomorrow, early. I’ve already spoken to the servants about it.”

“Yes, yes. No more waiting. Our flower awaits. And after the recent rains, the blooms should be spectacular.”

“Oh,” Isabelle said, looking startled.

“What is it, my dear?” her mother asked.

Eyes cast down, Isabelle replied, “Um, it is only…I seem to have trod on the lace at my hem and ripped it. May I retire to the ladies’ lounge and make repairs?”

“Of course.” Aunt Mary made to rise. “I will accompany you.”

Isabelle stood hastily. “Really, I can manage. Lily, will you come?”

It was a relief to be removed, however temporarily, from the sweet torment of James’s presence. Entering the lounge Lily crossed to a brilliantly tiled basin, dampened a towel, then sank down on a silk-covered chair near her cousin and draped the cool cotton across her eyes.

“Lily, are you quite sure you are all right?”

“A little tired,” she murmured, thankful for the quiet. Her head was pounding—desire and guilt and anger at herself a potent mix pressing against the inside of her eyelids. Whatever was she going to do? She should have remained in England, but she had not and there was no way to return now. Perhaps she could stay with the Fentons here in Tunis—but that would raise questions she could not easily answer. Just entering the dining room and seeing James there had sent the heat rising in her face. She must avoid arousing her aunt’s suspicions. She had insisted on coming despite her own better judgment. There was no turning back now.

Isabelle seemed to understand her desire for silence. Lily could hear the rustle of her gown, the snap of her reticule. And then, curiously, the rasp of pencil on paper. Removing the towel she glanced sharply over at her cousin.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Isabelle quickly tucked a scrap of paper into her reticule. “Shall we return?”

“Is your gown mended already?”

“Yes. I thought I heard it tear, but it appears there was no harm done.”

Lily glanced at her cousin’s handbag. She had only suspicions, nothing definite to confront Isabelle with, short of snatching the reticule and searching through it. That would only destroy the shaky trust they had been rebuilding since arriving in Tunis, and she had too much on her mind already to add one more thing to the clamor in her head.

Still, she watched her cousin closely during dinner—and tried to keep her attention from straying to James. Something inside her twisted each time she met his eyes.

“Had tea with Doctor Fenton today,” Uncle Edward said.

“Seems they are having some success raising support for their clinic, but not as much as they’d hoped.”

“It is difficult to effect change, especially for the poor,” Aunt Mary said. “I wish them the best of luck.”

“Wish us luck too,” Richard said. “I’m not sure we have enough room on the mules for all the unnecessary baggage.”

“We have no unnecessary baggage.” Aunt Mary frowned at her son. “They are necessities. You will realize that when you rest yourself on the excellent camp stools I found in the
souq
yesterday.”

“Hmph. Ought to hire out a dozen more mules, the amount of provisioning going on,” Mrs. Hodges said. “Carpets and teapots and pillows and such. A bathtub.”

“Really?” Richard looked appalled.

“It does fold up,” Aunt Mary said. “Proper hygiene is of especial importance.”

“But mother. A bathtub?”

“How splendid,” Isabelle said. “Richard, you simply must find a way to transport it.”

James nodded at the young man. “He will. I have every confidence.”

They were leaving then, bathtub and all. Lily felt a pang. She would miss Tunis. It was a city of such contrasts—whitewashed walls accented by bright blue shutters and grillwork, intimidating Arab faces showing a constant, friendly courtesy to their party, the music everywhere, jangling strings of an oudh, a pipe’s reedy wail down a palm-lined street. She had not drawn a fraction of the things she wanted to sketch in the marketplace.