Rose of the Mists (35 page)

The caress of her lips seared his skin, and then the tip of him was slipped delicately and a little awkwardly between the damp circle of her lips. Just when he thought he would faint from sensation, her tongue moved once, then twice against his flesh, and panic replaced the weakness as he felt his body’s push toward eruption.

“Meghan!” he cried between outrage and wickedly delicious enjoyment, and bent to drag her from her knees. “Meghan, lass! Ye can’t! Ye mustn’t! Ye don’t know what—”

Meghan’s cheeks were scarlet with her new knowledge. Feelings ran like rapids through her, making her shy and proud and as trembly as a leaf in the wind. “I—I didn’t know ’twould be like that! Please!” she begged softly, as the need to be held overcame her and she blindly stepped in to press her body against the long, strong length of his.

Revelin enfolded her tightly against him. “We’re mad, ye know!” he murmured as he rested his chin for an instant on the top of her head. The next he lifted her face to his and engulfed her mouth in a kiss.

Meghan wrapped her arms about him as if by pressure alone she could absorb him through her skin. She needed him with her, within her; it was her body’s demand drummed out in the tattoo of her pulse. His lips offered the beginning of pleasures she had experienced only once but demanded to know again. “Please, Rev—please!” she whispered frantically against his mouth.

Revelin smoothed a hand down her back, seeking to control the dancing of her hips against his. He needed no more stimulation. “Ah, Meghan, I must have ye after all. And ye’ll have me, there’s nae doubt of that!” He bent and scooped her up to
carry her to his bed. Following her into the depths of the mattress, he covered her body with his as kiss followed kiss.

But it did not help. Finally he dragged his mouth from hers, the pulsing urgency of his body’s demand overcoming his pleasure. Yet, he did not want it that way. He wanted, needed, more from her than that, much much more, and he did not know how to obtain it.

He lifted his head and tenderly stroked a long tangle of hair back from her forehead as he gazed down at her. “We were meant for this. I don’t know why or what shall become of us, but we are meant to share this.” And by saying what was in his heart, the hunger seemed to subside into a manageable need.

In giving in to the sweet passion of her body for his, Meghan offered him her utter and complete love. Every touch, every gesture, every disconnected gasp and shudder came from the joy of simply loving him with all that she had to offer. When the moment of joining took place, the sweet fulfillment of the act, she was vaguely aware that not all the tears that fled across her cheeks to the bedding beneath were hers.

*

Meghan stroked him from shoulder to thigh, delighting in the soft springy hair that lightly furred his buttocks as he lay on his stomach beside her. The arm he had thrown about her tightened, drawing her closer, and, kittenlike, she snuggled against him. His body was so different from hers and so dear. “Why did ye deny us before, Revelin?”

Revelin raised his head from her shoulder to look into her eyes. “Perhaps ’twas misplaced pride, or perhaps I fear what may happen to you. I’m not an altogether free man. I cannot explain it well, but I owe a loyalty to my family which I cannot forsake even for love.”

“I’d not stand in yer way, ye must know that.”

He brushed his finger across the furrow marks on her brow, pressing until they were smoothed out by his touch. “’Tis not
a matter of your standing in my way, lass. What concerns me is that you may be endangered by being near me. There’s talk of war and of the Butlers’ hand in it. If war comes, I must intercede. That is why, as soon as I can arrange it, I’m sending you to England.”

He felt her gather breath to protest and cut her off. “You must understand that I cannot leave behind my weakness to be exploited if it comes to battle. And you, lass…” his voice dropped lower as he bent toward her and kissed the words, “…are…my…weakness.”

“Take me with ye,” she murmured against his mouth.

He chuckled as her breath teased his kiss-bruised lips. “Meghan, you play unfairly. Were you with me I’d think of nothing but this!” He kissed her quick and hard. “And this!” His hand moved to her breast and squeezed. “And particularly this!” His hand slid lower until his knowing fingers surprised a gasp from her.

A stubborn frown returned to Meghan’s face, not to be smoothed by appeasing fingers this time. “I do not want to go to England. I do not like the English!”

“But, Meghan,” he protested with gentle laughter, “
I
am English.”

“Ye’re not,” she answered indignantly. “Ye’re a Leinsterman, and while that’s nae the same as an Ulsterman, ’tis Irish ye are, and Irish ye must remain!”

“Must I?” Revelin questioned as though the suggestion were a new one to him. And, in a way, it was. He had been born in Ireland, not far from Kilkenny, but he had come under Thomas Butler’s care early in life when his parents died. By his twelfth summer he was in school in England, and he could not remember a time when he had spent more than a few weeks in Ireland until now. He had grown up under the earl of Ormond’s influence, a man of tenacious loyalty to the English queen. The earl would not join a rebellion aimed at routing her influence. Could he?

“I’m not so certain as you, lass, where my loyalties should lie.”

Meghan struggled to free her body from under his, and Revelin reluctantly rolled to one side, releasing her. She sat up and turned to him. “Ye cannot think to take an Englishman’s side against yer own blood kin?”

He might have paid more attention to her indignant tone if the firelight shadows had not been playing a delicious game of hide-and-seek about her splendid breasts. And it was, with his divided attention, he merely murmured, “Hmmm,” while seeking one soft nipple with his mouth.

“Revelin!” Meghan cried and gave him a box on the ear with a hard fist.

It was not the worst blow he had received, but its unexpectedness coupled with what he considered its undeserved vigor made him angry. “Why you little—!”

He saw the glimmer of anger a scant instant before he lunged at her, and she, as agile as a doe, slipped past him off the end of the bed.

Caught off guard, his lunge went wide and his momentum sent him sprawling headfirst to the end of the bed. He caught himself with his hands to prevent banging his head, but he could not stop the forward motion of his body and slid off the bed and landed on the floor with a resounding thump.

The noise reverberated through the house, and Meghan could not suppress her amusement. Musical laughter flowed from her like the sound of wind chimes disturbed by a sudden breeze.

Footsteps sounded at once on the servants’ steps. Revelin scrambled to his feet and clamped a hand over Meghan’s mouth as the footsteps sounded in the hall. Seconds later, a knock at the door sent the portal—which was off the latch—swinging wide, and his footman Owens was treated to the sight of the naked couple.

The servant’s eyes vied with his mouth for the greater circumference of surprise. “Begging yer pardon, Sir Revelin!” he cried and hurried out.

Revelin could hold his laughter no longer. “Lord love us! The entire household will know of this before daybreak, and Mrs. Cambra will have a missive in the mail to the earl before first light!”

Meghan cast a dark look at the hilarious man beside her. “Mrs. Cambra thinks nae good of me. Said I was cow-uddered, she did! And ’twas nae proper for ye to be easing me out of me clothing.”

Revelin groaned. He had completely forgotten about the little episode with Meghan’s corset. But, of course, Mrs. Cambra would have helped Meghan undress and put two and two together.

“Cow-uddered?” he said suddenly, remembering Meghan’s statement. “Lass, were the cows of Erin formed like you, there'd not be a family man in all of Ireland!”

“Shall I go away now?” she asked when his mirth subsided.

Revelin thought about that for a moment while his eyes traveled the length of her beauty. “No, lass, I think not. Tomorrow we shall change your residence.” He held a hand out to her in a manner befitting a courtier. “Tonight is all we have and the hours shorten. We were best abed!”

*

Revelin came fully alert in the time it took him to sit up in bed. “Enter!” he called as he reached for his dagger, which lay on the bedside table.

The door opened slowly and Owens the footman stuck his head into the room. “Begging yer pardon, Sir Revelin. But we’ve a visitor below and I was told to wake you.”

Meghan stirred at the sound of voices and Revelin put a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “Who is it, Owens?” When he saw the footman’s eyes veer to Meghan’s sleeping form, he added, “She is trustworthy.”

“’Tis Sir Piers.”

“Uncle Piers, here?” He slid from bed and began reaching for his clothing. “Did he come alone?”

“Aye,” Owens answered. “Said I was to tell ye, Sir Revelin. None of the staff is to know he’s come.”

Revelin nodded as he pulled on his shirt, leaving the lacing open at the throat, then pulled on his trunk hose. “That will have to do,” he muttered to himself when he had donned canions, stockings, and soft leather shoes.

Meghan sat up in bed silently watching him. Only when he reached the door did he remember her and look back with a smile. “Sleep, lass. You’ve had little enough rest this night.”

When he arrived belowstairs, Revelin found his uncle seated at the table with several slices of ham and a tankard of English ale before him.

“Revelin, lad!” he cried, and rose to embrace his nephew as though they were meeting in the open light of day rather than the secret cover of night. “Let me look at what five years has done for you! ’Twould seem Thomas has done right by you, for all you’ve been raised a ward of the English court.” He slapped his nephew heartily on the back. “You’ve topped me height a bit, lad. That’s what damned Irish blood will do for you!”

Revelin did not try to calm his uncle’s boisterousness. No doubt the entire staff knew the moment he arrived. Of the four Butler brothers, Piers was most Gaelic in his speech, clothing, and attitude. “Uncle Piers, you’ve not changed.” He patted Piers’s broad, muscular frame. “You’re eating well, I see, and there’s nary a gray whisker among the black.”

Piers pulled his chin whiskers and winked. “’Tis the lassies that keep me young. Though Thomas, damn him, has the better of me by three. But there’s a lass down on the Nore ’tis claimed will bear me twins before summer’s end. Let Thomas top that!”

Revelin smiled. The Butlers were of the old school, feudal lords whose amorous exploits among their tenants’ nubile wives and daughters were as much a source of boasting and friendly rivalry as were their military adventures.

“Sit! Sit!” Piers exclaimed, waving Revelin into a chair in his own home. “And what of you, lad?” He glanced up at the ceiling. “What’s she like, this black-haired changeling you’ve been sleeping with?”

Revelin laughed. “Lord! Are there no secrets in a Butler household?”

“I should hope not!” Piers answered and reached for his ale. “So, is she breeding yet, lad? You’ve a far road to go to catch up with Black Tom’s dozen.”

Butler children born out of wedlock had little to complain about to their sires, for they were well cared for. But the possibility that Meghan might one day bear a child of his had not really taken root in Revelin’s mind. He reached for the pitcher of ale and poured some into the tankard Owens had thoughtfully placed out for him. “What would you think were I to tell you I’m considering marriage?”

Piers winked at him. “’Tis a natural course for a man. But I’d not clamp myself in the marriage shackles too soon. There’s many a pretty face and pleasing pair of thighs just awaiting a man’s touch.”

“Marriage does not appear to have restrained you,” Revelin observed dryly.

Piers chuckled. “Aye, but I’m not an overly serious man. You, Revelin lad, were always too much a thoughtful soul. Oh, I’m not claiming there’s no fire in your blood.” His eyes swept speculatively upward once more. “Will she come down and make her curtsy?” he questioned hopefully.

“Not if I can help it, you old goat!” Revelin muttered.

Piers roared his appreciation, waking perhaps even the mice that dwelt within the walls. “So, ’tis that way. Aye, I remember my first love. ’Twas russet-haired, she was, with skin as pale and rich as fresh cream. A fine high bosom and thighs—well, I got me first son on her. There were two lassies after that. She died four years back; the plague took her.” His voice turned wistful. “We had rare times, that lass and I.”

Revelin did not prolong the conversation. For all Piers’s easy manner, he had not ridden into Dublin under the cover of night to reminisce about lost loves. “What news have you brought?”

“’Tis a rare sad business before us, lad. The Butlers stand to lose all if that English slut accepts the hand in marriage of our mortal enemy Leicester.” His vivid dark eyes met Revelin’s across the table. “There’s talk of it. You better than others can tell me if ’twill come to pass.”

Revelin shook his head. “I’ve been absent from court these last six weeks, Piers. The winds of opportunity there change directions as often as the queen changes her gown.”

Piers snorted his opinion of that. “Aye. Yet why else does Thomas remain in London while we must sweat out the actions of the Dublin Parliament?” He struck the table with his fist. “Damme, if I give up one inch of my lands to those
foolchon allmhardha,
Carew and Grenville!”