The Pearl at the Gate (5 page)

Chapter Six

Sleep eluded her, held at bay by hurt so deep it clawed at her heart and squeezed her stomach into an aching ball. The agony wrapped around her, blocking her ability to do anything but feel it.

Silently, Roake had brought her here and put her into bed. Just as silently, he had left. There was a moment when she thought he hesitated, but before she could speak, he turned on his heel and was gone.

A rooster crowed accompaniment to the dawn, dim rays of sunlight curling slim fingers around the edge of the thick drapes of her bedroom windows. Dry-eyed, she lay staring, watching the beams grow brighter. Sounds of life came distant to her ears but were not recognized or acknowledged.

How was it possible to go from the heights of ecstasy to the pits of hell between one breath and the next?

Jenesta sat up in bed, drawing the neck of Roake’s shirt close to her throat, taking deep breaths, pulling his scent into her body. Slowly, drawn by a force beyond understanding, she rose and stepped to the window, drawing back the drapes, blinking against the sun.

Roake strode toward the stable path, his greatcoat swirling around his legs, a saddlebag over his shoulder. Perhaps it was something in his walk or the tilt of his head but, with a shock of certainty, Jenesta knew.

He was leaving.

Doubled over against the pain, she stumbled to the bed, held on to it, bile rushing into her throat.

“Captain Barbenoir.”

Jenesta watched Roake stiffen at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t turn to look in her direction. Instead he took the saddle from the groom and dismissed the man with a nod. When he tossed the saddle over its back, the animal sidestepped and whickered in protest. “What is it?”

Jenesta winced at the cold tone, clutched the front of her cloak in her trembling fingers.

“May I know where you are going?”

Roake reached under the horse for the cinch. The sight of the leather in his hand brought a shiver along her spine and she caught her breath in a silent gasp. Roake stared at it for a long moment, as though unsure what to do. He shook his head slightly and passed the strap through the buckle.

“I ride for Bristol.”

“When will you return?”

He tightened the cinch, tested the firmness of the saddle with a quick tug. “I do not know.”

Jenesta felt his carelessly spoken words like blows as her greatest fear seemed realized. Although the finality in his tone clearly indicated he considered the matter closed, she could not leave it alone.

“A week? Two? Three?”

“I have word that one of my ships has lost her captain. It might be in my best interests to take the wheel myself.”

Jenesta wanted to turn away lest he see the tears welling in her eyes, but her feet refused to move. Did she disgust him so he felt the need to abandon his home, leave behind all he had built?

Please don’t abandon me. I can change—go back to what I was.

But even as the thought emerged, it died. They could never go back. She could never forget they passion they shared through the night.

He could never forget she was not what he thought her to be.

Even through the anguish ripping her heart, a spark of anger lit deep in her belly. He was not planning to come back, would have left her without a word, without allowing her to say anything in return.

Jenesta clutched her cloak tighter, shivers wracking her body. As though from afar she heard her voice ask, “What do you wish for me to do in your absence?”

Roake still would not look at her. Standing with his hand on the horse’s rump, he stared off into the distance, as though his mind was already far away. “Do?”

“Yes, Captain. Do you wish me to leave Black Oaks before you return? I will do that, if you wish it. There is no need for you to leave your home on my account.”

Roake started to turn his head toward her, stopped. His other hand came up, fingers lightly touching his greatcoat above where his watch pocket lay. “Black Oaks is your home now. You are its custodian in my absence. Unless…” his voice trailed to silence, then he cleared his throat and continued, “Unless you find the thought of remaining here distasteful. Should you choose to leave, send word to my solicitor and he will make all necessary arrangements.”

Jenesta could find no words to reply. Should she tell him the truth pulsing through her with every heartbeat—that there was nowhere on earth she would ever consider home again unless he was there also? She would, gladly, if it would make him stay, but she knew it would not.

What could she do to make him stay?

His demeanour said there was nothing she could do, or say, to change his mind. The unfairness of it all caused her anger to grow and color her voice as she asked, “And if I am carrying your child?”

His horse whickered, sidestepped away from his hand, but Roake did not move. For a long, silent beat he stood with his arm suspended, and then it fell to his side, fingers clenched in a fist. “You and your child will be taken care of. You will want for nothing.”

“Except for a husband and father.”

“And you would both be better for the lack.”

Roake turned away to adjust the stirrup as his words rocked her back on her heels.

“How can you say that? What do you mean by it?”

She stepped toward him, anger turning to rage. Roake did not reply. Ducking under the horse’s neck, he adjusted the other stirrup, tossed his saddlebag over the animal’s back. With a swift, fluid movement, he mounted the horse.

Something inside her insisted they not part this way. He would not care about her love for him or for the anguish burning her heart to ash, but there were other things she could not hold inside.

Without care for her safety, Jenesta ran forward to grab the bridle.

The beast tossed its head, tried to rear, but although it almost lifted her off her feet, she would not let go.

“Jenesta, stop.”

“How can you say your child would be better off without you? How could you allow the way you feel about me to taint your feelings for your child?” The tears she had been fighting won the battle, began to flow down her cheeks. She could not see him and blinked to clear her vision. His face was set, skin tight across his high cheekbones, eyes like blue-grey mist.

“Let me go, Jenesta.”

“Why should I let you go so easily, Roake Barbenoir, when you leave me trapped in a prison I can never escape?”

He drew back as though she had slapped him again, all colour draining from his face. The horse danced in place, the strike of hooves against the cobblestones loud in the morning quiet.

“We are at war, madam. With any luck, my ship will be sunk and the doors to your prison fly open on my death.”

“You unconscionable ass.” Jenesta barely breathed the words. The pain and rage banded across her chest, leaving her gasping for air. No longer in control of her faculties, unable to block the words, she tried to scream, and whispered instead, “Death will not release me from my love for you.”

Then she turned and ran—away from the frozen look on his face, from the searing agony being with him brought. But the pain pursued her back to the house, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, catching at her breath, tearing into her soul. And she knew no matter how far or how fast she might flee, it would always be there, waiting.

“The first time I saw you, I could not look away.”

Jenesta wasn’t sure Roake’s low, hoarse voice was real, so she stayed where she was, curled in a chair, staring at her empty bedroom fireplace. If it were a dream, or a figment of her imagination, she would rather be asleep or insane than the alternative. In the real world, Roake was gone.

“I was riding in Hyde Park. You were driving with your mother and sister. Your mother stopped to speak to someone and I sat on my horse like a callow youth, staring.”

Footsteps crossed the carpet, came closer to where she was. “I couldn’t put a name to what I was feeling. I have travelled the world, seen beautiful women of every nationality, but when I looked at you, everything else in my life faded to insignificance. That night I begged your acquaintance, at the duchess’s ball. You looked up at me, smiled, and I knew I would move heaven and earth to make you mine. You were like a pearl, perfect, pure. I wanted to possess you, have you for myself.”

Jenesta drew a shaky breath. She had thought she had no more tears left inside, but they stung her eyes afresh. “Now you know how far I am from perfection and the purity you ascribed me. I destroyed that, and your trust along with it. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Roake knelt beside her, reached out as though to touch her face, but drew back his hand. “You have destroyed nothing. To me you are, and will always be, exactly what I thought you were that first moment. Everything I hoped and dreamed, more than I ever imagined—far more than I deserve.”

“Don’t.” Jenesta turned her head away. The look on his face broke her heart all over again. “Do not pretend, or take the blame for what has happened between us. I was the one who betrayed your trust by going where I was told not to go, destroying what we had. If you cannot bear to stay with me, then go, now. Please, don’t torture me this way.”

Roake shifted to place his hand on her cheek, gently turned her to face him. Jenesta closed her eyes, felt his fingertip feather across her lashes. The warmth of his palm saturated her skin, trickled down to ease the ache in her heart. He sighed, rubbed his thumb across her lips.

His voice was little more than a whisper as he replied, “Since we met, my feelings for you have continued to grow. I loved you more each day, yet I could not stop the dreams. They haunted me—possessed my soul with thoughts of things I knew would frighten and disgust you. Last night I believed, even as you clung to me and cried with pleasure, that this morning you would hate me for what I was doing. I couldn’t bear that, Jenesta. I believed the only way to avoid the pain of seeing your disgust was to leave. Instead you came after me and told me you loved me. I need to know if that is true, or if…”

Roake’s voice faltered and Jenesta opened her eyes. Too tired to hide from him, she nodded and then gasped as a blaze of relief flared on his face. Then she was in his arms.

His breath rasped from his lips, his chest rising and falling as he held her tight and she buried her face in his neck. Roake skimmed his hand over her cheek, followed it with his lips.

“Tell me again, Jenesta, so I can truly believe.”

She would deny him nothing, give him everything. “I love you. I have loved you from the moment I looked up and saw you walking toward me. Something inside me came to life, just as you wrote in your journal—darkness and light, mixing together, drawing me to you, only you. What we did last night was more than I knew to dream.” She was sobbing, trying so hard to let him know everything. “I needed you to be the way you were, fell deeper in love with you with each passing moment. I thought you would be horrified to discover who I really am, deep inside, where only you can touch. I cannot be the perfect pearl you desired, but whatever I am is yours.”

He shuddered, lifted her head to wipe her cheeks with his fingers and lips. “You are my pearl at the gate to heaven, Jenesta. Only you can open the way to Paradise. Will you stay with me, love me as I love you, let me into the heaven of being in your arms? All I am, all I have, is yours.”

Jenesta answered with her lips against his. She opened them to his tongue, as her heart opened to his love, and with a sweet moan of happiness, her thighs opened to his questing fingers.

The pearl wept tears of joy, and the gate swung wide to let them in.

About the Author

To learn more about Anya Delvay, please visit
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Look for these titles by Anya Delvay

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Night of the Cereus

A sensual cornucopia anthology from the Master of erotica.

Sensual Magic

© 2006 Emy Naso

From the late Emy Naso at his expansive best. The sensual anthology ranges from a Romeo and Juliet space odyssey with love truly conquering all, a gripping and extremely violent short on an Irish and Viking battle where the captive survives and outwits her captors against all odds.

Find humor in the naughty going-ons in a dusty wild west town, and revel in the sexual antics amongst the English lords and ladies in the late 1800s. Then go along for a day in the life of a slave girl and her many lovers in the harem.

Warning, this title contains the following: explicit sex, graphic language, ménage a trois, male/male and female/female interaction, spanking, bondage and extreme sexual violence. You have been warned.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Sensual Magic:

The next century was just five months away. Eighteen ninety-nine sparkled, glowed and sprinkled the land with warmth. It was one of the hottest summers on record and the Duke and Duchess DeLisy thought that everything was perfect. Well, almost perfect. As they strolled across the lawn of their country home a minor irritant bothered their thoughts. It was their twenty-one-year-old daughter, Lady Columbine.

“Is that girl not interested in anything?” the Duchess said to her husband, whilst at the same time keeping an expression of complete serenity and waving regally at a group of guests playing croquet.

“I’d settle if she were to show an interest in getting married,” the Duke huffed. “She must be the most eligible woman in the county. What with your beauty, my influence and our wealth,” he added grumpily, less able than the Duchess to moan and keep a happy face at the same time.

“I’ve thrown so many grand parties and introduced her to men with titles, men with money and men with family connections going back farther than an antique heirloom,” Camilla, Duchess of DeLisy agreed.

They reached the stairs leading up to the veranda, took drinks of champagne from a footman standing rigidly to attention, and walked with confidence up the stone treads to greet the old Queen’s envoy. The aged Victoria had sent Lord Beaumont to Askley House, the palatial mansion of the Duke and Duchess, to discuss matters of state.

***`

From an upstairs window, Lady Columbine watched her parents. She knew what they would be talking about—her. They wanted her to marry some noble earl or even one of those rich industrialists who made their money by crowding thousands of workers into a noisy factory, mass-producing something or another and then selling it to a mighty empire around the world.

Columbine’s mother was constantly lecturing her daughter on the need for decorum, the heritage of their illustrious past and the necessity to bear an heir to continue all this tradition.

She walked to the satin and gold thread bell-pull and gave it a gentle jerk, then she continued across the room, sat in the high-back brown leather chair looking away from the door, studiously staring at the bookcase.

After a while the door opened and a hesitant young footman came in, looked around the room, saw no one and was about to go out.

“I am sitting over here, Stiffman,” Lady Columbine called to the footman from her position hidden behind the chair. “Bring me my tea from over on the table.”

As she couldn’t see him he raised his eyebrows in disgust that he’d been summoned up from the servants’ quarters to fetch Lady Columbine’s tray from just the other side of the room. He picked it up, marched dutifully across the room, walked around in front of Lady Columbine…and there was a loud crash. He’d dropped the tray and its contents. The gorgeous young mistress was sitting in the chair, legs and knees pulled up, soles of her feet on the flat of the chair and completely stark naked.

Lady Columbine smiled and fluttered her long eyelashes, for the entire world as if she were a demure girl at her first party, not a wanton aristocratic nude showing every single asset she possessed to the footman.

“Well, Stiffman. Are you?”

“Am I what, m’lady?”

“A stiff man,” she retorted with a gleam in her eye.