Whisper of Magic (26 page)

Outside her door, the house seemed peculiarly . . .
busy
 . . . wasn’t
quite the right word. Astir, possibly. The wind had picked up, and it carried
voices on the drafts through the old stone walls and down the chimneys. There
were apparently stairs nearby, and she could hear feet pattering up and down.
She hadn’t met Lady Octavia but hoped her lying-in was comfortable.

She did her best to pretend she’d never heard Lady Aster’s
warning to sleep on a separate floor from Erran. That was superstitious
nonsense, although these drafty, medieval, stone walls opened themselves to old
tales and legends.

Restlessly, she sorted through the journals stacked on the
table beside her tray. She stroked pages of her mother’s penmanship with a pang
of longing, remembering long ago days when they’d both sat in the sunny parlor,
writing their thoughts. She missed her parents dreadfully and would always
associate them with sun and warm breezes. Would she ever see her home again?

Fighting loneliness and an impractical homesickness, she
nibbled from her supper tray while skimming through the journals. Erran had
distracted her from moroseness these last nights. Perhaps that was why she
enjoyed his company so much.

The wind whistling under the door said she lied to herself.

She wrapped a blanket over her shoulders and kept reading.

She had the early books, the ones that spoke of courtship,
marriage, and pregnancy. She sighed in longing over the words of love in the
writing of both her parents. She marked the pages with dates of their marriage.
She couldn’t find the earlier tome mentioning how her father learned of his
first wife’s death. She’d have to go back to the library to find that date.

Her birth was almost nine months to the day from their
marriage. Their mutual joy spilled onto the pages. How could anyone doubt her
father’s integrity or her mother’s virtue? It was all right here.

When she encountered mention of sending the journals to
Wystan, she read closer.

The knock on the door at the rear of the room startled her,
and she nearly dropped the book. Before she could gather her wits, she heard
Erran’s excited voice, and without a second thought, she invited him in.

He was still dressed, although he’d abandoned his rumpled
neckcloth and had unfastened his coat and waistcoat. Still sitting in her
chair, she shouldn’t notice how nicely he fit his trousers, but his hips were
practically at eye level. She had to look up to see the book he was waving at her.

“This says your father sent copies of
all his documents
here to Wystan for safekeeping. He had doubts
about the honesty of his English relations! There’s apparently been bad blood
between the branches of the family for generations.”

She shrugged out of her blanket and stood to grab the book
he was swinging so exuberantly. She laughed as he lifted it out of her reach,
making her jump for it. “You should be happy more often. It becomes you. You’re
at risk of becoming a stuffy bore.”

“A stuffy bore!” he cried, grabbing her by the waist and
dancing her across the floor. “That’s what lawyers are supposed to be.”

She loved his arms around her too much. She wanted him to be
happy like this always. Which was arrogant presumption.

She shoved from his arms and clasped her robe tighter to
keep her heart from leaping from her chest. “You mad man! You dived straight
into work and didn’t bathe. There’s a tub behind the screen and hot water on
the grate. You have earned a celebration. Shall I call for brandy?”

His eyes lit as he glanced from her to the dressing screen.
She didn’t want to know what was happening in that powerful brain of his. Or if
he’d gone as brainless as she had. She pointed at the screen. “After you fetch
your clean clothes, I’ll go in your room to give you privacy while you wash.”

“You are a woman of rare understanding.” He kissed her
forehead, grabbed the last of her sandwiches, and leaving the precious book in
her hands, returned to his room.

She hugged the book against her chest and let joy course through
her. He liked her!

And soon, she would have the documents to allow her to
return to Jamaica and save the plantation.

With the provocative male smell of him still clinging to
her, she felt her heart begin to rip in two.

***

Knowing Celeste was only one room away, Erran bathed
quickly, using his own soap to overcome the floral scent of hers. Her laughter
sang in his ears. The joy in her eyes at his triumphant discovery lightened his
heart. And the memory of her graceful, barely-clad figure in his arms would
keep him awake forever.

He scrubbed at his hair and rubbed ruefully at his whiskers.
No wonder she had shoved him toward the tub. He smelled and looked like a
ruffian—but he’d wanted the proof to beat Lansdowne into the ground and had put
work first.

He’d had the devil of a time concentrating on reading,
knowing Celeste was only one wall away. He’d listened for every movement and
heard only the howl of the wind. He’d wanted to check just to see if she were
still alive.

That wasn’t normal for him. His concentration had always
been formidable.

She’d accused him of turning into a stuffy bore—and she was
right.

Since he’d yelled a courtroom into obeisance, he’d kept his
mouth shut and his nose to the grindstone. Duncan’s blindness had only made
life grimmer. Tonight had been the first night in forever that he’d felt like
himself again.

He rubbed dry and yanked on clean breeches and shirt, then
pulled his robe over them, not trusting himself to wear less in Celeste’s
presence. She was so naively unaware of his lust that he couldn’t sully their
friendship
. She thought him a stuffy
bore! That challenged him to change her mind—except she was far safer if he let
her be. The devilish woman was addling his brainpan!

She met him at the doorway with her finger on a page of one
of the books. “It says my parents sent witnessed documents of births and
marriages to Wystan as well. Should we look for this marvelous repository?”

She had let her hair dry in a single thick braid that fell
over her breast, and Erran couldn’t make his thick tongue work. She was so
exquisitely slender and fine-boned that he feared he would harm her just by
touching, which he knew was ridiculous. But the notion was there, in his head,
and he had to look away just to answer.

“We’ll ask in the morning.” He picked up the blanket she’d
been wearing earlier and dropped it around her shoulders. “This place is too
drafty to be wandering about at night.”

The air seemed to sing with high-pitched voices. What the
devil were the women doing upstairs?

Setting aside her book, Celeste looked around, as if she
heard the sound too. And then, unexpectedly, she smiled. “The spirits are
providing music. Perhaps they wish us to continue dancing!”

He
wished to
continue dancing. Knowing he would regret this shortly, still resenting that
she thought him a bore, he bowed. “A spirit dance, my lady?”

The haunting song escalated, as if the spirits approved.

Celeste widened her eyes but accepted his offered hand.
Instead of a waltz position, he placed his arms around her slender waist and
drew her into him. Looking at him questioningly, she raised her arms to his
shoulders. This was a kissing position—and she wasn’t objecting.

The stuffy bore he’d become wanted to resist, to control his
desire.

The man he’d once been lowered his mouth to hers and tested
the sweet lushness of her lips.

The singing increased in rhythm and excitement, just as his
pulse beat harder at Celeste’s eager response. She parted her lips and allowed
him access. He ran one hand lower, cupping her buttocks through the thin linen
and lifting her into him. She was heaven in one beautiful package, and he
plundered her mouth recklessly.

She didn’t shy away.

She should. With reluctance, he pulled his head back, but he
couldn’t release her had he been offered a mountain of gold. “Slap my face,” he
bullied her with his Courtroom Voice. “Push me away.”

Her eyes had turned a brilliant aquamarine, the color of
clear oceans, beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. They were nearly luminous
with wonder.

“I feel as if I’ve drunk your brandy,” she murmured in her
best seductive tone—and beneath it, he heard desire. “I don’t think I can stand
on my own.”

The bed was right . . .
there
. He could just lift her on it and set her free. He need only
make a single step . . .

Erran groaned and buried his lips in the sweet curve between
Celeste’s throat and shoulder. She bent willingly into his embrace, her breasts
pressing into him, her hips exactly where he needed her.

The singing multiplied into an angelic chorus, urging him to
lift her, to push her back to that high bed, to take her as she was meant to be
taken.

She fell into the down covers still holding onto him. As if
by magic, he was standing between her legs while he continued to plunder her
mouth. He stroked the gauzy lawn over her hips and covered her nose and eyes
with kisses. Her gown slid up. His robe came untied. He could still stop. He
could still push away—if she would just release him.

But her kisses whispered over his rough jaw, interspersed
with siren murmurs. Those slender hands that sewed such tiny stitches shoved
aside his robe and pressed their warmth through his shirt, and his cock surged
in longing. Erran released her hips and spread his broad palms across her
breasts, pushing them into ripe mounds so he could lean in and take them with
his teeth through the thin fabric of her shift.

Her moan was more music to his ears than an angelic
choir—promising heaven. No siren call could be more compelling . . . .

Before he could process the impact of that fuzzy thought,
she moaned again and licked at a place beneath his ear. Lust swelled and
irrationality claimed him. He needed to possess her, claim this perfect woman
as his own and give her pleasure. She deserved happiness.

He opened her ribbons and found her bare breast. Suckling,
he ran his hands back to her hips, lifting her more firmly to the mattress,
pulling her into him again.

“Tell me to stop,” he commanded with some still rational
part of his brain. “Say the words.”

“Stop,” she said sweetly. But he heard that other voice, the
real one, the one that said
go
.

Confused, he bent his forehead to press against hers, trying
to gather his wits.

“Please,” she whispered in her real voice. “Don’t stop.”

And this time, her words and her voice matched. But it
wasn’t her voice that compelled him. It was her hands sliding up his chest, her
hips lifting into his . . . and maybe the music of the night . . .
that drove him onward.

He covered her mouth with his and let their bodies speak. He
could still rescue this situation. With just a little control . . .
He tugged her gown higher and pressed his thumb into the soft tissues between
her thighs.

She cried out in a voice that was pure soul and need, and
any thought of control fled.

Erran unfastened his trousers as if she’d demanded it.

The singing melted Celeste’s heart and brought her such
joy—she had never known such sweetness existed. She clung to Erran, the man who
made the songs resonate with chords deep inside her. Until now, she’d never
understood the physical attraction between man and woman. Yes, she admired his
intelligence, enjoyed watching him at work, and craved his company. But until
this moment, she hadn’t understood how she needed him to
complete
what was missing inside her.

And suddenly, it was marvelously clear. She heard the
command in his voice urging her to stop. She heard the lonely hunger behind the
command telling her he needed her. And the songs blended the conflict into one
whole—he cared for
her
more than his
own needs. He wanted to stop for her sake, not his own.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having someone to
care for her, to think of her needs above his own, so she must return the
favor.

Her heart was no longer lonely. She nearly wept with joy as
she ran her hands through his thick curls and returned his fervent kisses. When
he caressed her
there
, she surged
into him, needing more. She felt his need as her own, and the pressure to join
with him was so strong, she could not deny him.

She bit her lip in frustration when he stopped to remove her
shift, pulling it over her head as he lifted her more fully onto the bed. She
grabbed his linen in retaliation, demanding the same. He obliged, and she
savored the hard ridges of his torso, exploring the dark male nipples so
different from her own.

She desperately needed to learn everything about him because
not to do so would be devastating. It would be like not knowing her arms
existed.

“Celeste . . .” he said in that warning tone
that sent warm shivers down her spine.

“Erran,” she replied mockingly, lifting herself to lick at
his nipple as he had done hers.

Tomorrow simply did not matter. The joyous song told her so.

He groaned as she nibbled at his chest, and she
heard
his desire in that sound. She had
never thought to experience a man’s need, and it was delicious. He worshipped
at her meager breasts, treating them with tenderness and respect while driving
her to new heights of hunger. She parted her legs and lifted her hips and
begged for what must surely follow.

He still wore his trousers, but they’d come undone. She
could feel his raw maleness rubbing at her thighs, and she went a little mad
not being able to touch.

“Please,” she whispered as seductively as she knew how, even
knowing he didn’t hear her magic.
Magic
.
The air was filled with it. Her womb stirred with the need for it.