He leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The black robe made him seem even taller and broader than usual. "Do you really want to sleep alone? I will never force you to do something against your will, Sara, but I have never understood the aristocratic English passion for separate rooms. After all, sharing a bed is one of the main reasons to marry." He gave her a slow, provocative smile. "How can a bride become accustomed to her husband if she doesn't sleep with him?"
Blushing, Sara pulled one of the scarlet roses from the vase. "I don't know if I prefer sleeping alone because I've never done otherwise, but I am willing to... test the advantages of sharing." Her eyes cast down, she inhaled the rose's sultry sweetness. "You have done so much today to make me feel cherished and cared for. Thank you, Mikahl."
"I'm glad," he said simply. "I want to please you in all things."
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, inexplicably moved by the pleasure he took in pleasing her. If Sara had not already been in love with him, she would have tumbled into love on the spot. A pity that she did not dare admit to love. She returned the rose to the vase, then stepped up to him and slipped her arms around his neck. "You please me more than any man I've ever known."
Taking her embrace as permission to touch, he straightened up and pulled her close. Sliding his hands down her back from shoulders to hips, he said, "Ah, Sara, sweet Sara, it is delightful to hold you without all that female armor in the way."
"I'm equally glad not to be wearing it," she said fervently, enjoying the feel of his solid, muscular body.
For a few minutes they simply held each other, savoring closeness after the busy day. As she relaxed, Sara began to realize the humor in the situation. Her voice teasing, she said, "I suppose that most wedding nights have an established program of events, but since we intend to move with Hindu deliberation, where do we go from here?"
After a moment's thought, he said with a perfectly straight face, "Perhaps I should draw on my experiences as a world traveler to give you a combination lecture and demonstration on differing sexual attitudes. If I demonstrate anything you are not comfortable with, just say so and I will stop."
"A lecture and demonstration. That sounds very worthy and intellectual." Sara rubbed her cheek against the lush nap of his caftan, not feeling in the least intellectual.
"I shall attempt to maintain a high moral tone," he said solemnly while he stroked the underside of her chin with his knuckle. "I will begin with the fact that women bear children. That simple law of nature is the reason why it is dangerous for a woman to bestow her favors lightly. She must find a man with the strength and desire to care for her and their children. Since the wrong man can ruin her life, girls learn early, and justly, to be wary of male intentions."
"But women still succumb to male lures," Sara observed. "I did whenever you came near me."
"For which blessing I am duly grateful." He lifted his hand, his fingertips whisper-light across the curve of her cheek. "Western women carry two burdens. Not only the fact that nature decrees that they should defend themselves against men, but they must also contend with the attitudes of the Christian Church. For almost two thousand years the church has taught that the flesh is evil, though such teaching was not always successful, for desire is a fundamental part of human nature."
"Thank heaven for Mother Nature," Sara said, interested at how clearly her husband saw underlying influences that she had never considered. She was equally interested by the fact that when he ran his finger around the edge of her ear, warm tingles spread to distant parts of her anatomy.
"When a girl has been raised to hate and fear a man's touch, it is hardly surprising if she does not become instantly responsive when she marries," he continued. "Some women are never able to overcome their fears, and both husband and wife are the losers for that."
Sara's languid contentment abruptly vanished when Mikahl untied the ribbons fastening her robe, then peeled the filmy garment away and let it float silently to the floor.
"Too often women are uncomfortable with their bodies and do not understand their own capacity for passion." Putting his hands on her shoulders, he began massaging the hollows above her collarbones with his thumbs. "I want you to learn to love your body, Sara. In time, I hope you will learn to love mine."
Feeling overexposed in her gauzy nightgown, she said with brittle flippancy, "Some bodies are easier to love than others."
Immediately she wished that she had not spoken, for his hands stilled. Then he cupped her face and raised it so that she was looking directly into his green eyes. From his expression, she knew that she had revealed something that she would rather have kept deeply buried.
"You believe that your body is unlovable? Wrong, sweet Sara. The first time I saw you at your garden party, I was struck by your beauty."
"Don't lie to me." She twisted away from his too-penetrating eyes. "My looks are average at best."
"Foolish, foolish Sara," he murmured. Leading her to the pier glass on the opposite side of the room, he stood behind her so that she saw them both full-length. Her head did not even reach his chin.
"Look in the mirror, Sara." He lifted a handful of her hair, then let it spill slowly through his fingers, the strands shining in the lamplight as they drifted down over her breast and shoulder. "Your hair is enchanting, like antique gold that has been spun into thread fit for the gods." He grinned. "Ross's hair is much the same, but for some reason on him it doesn't affect me the same way.
"And your face. You do not have the bland prettiness that will be out of fashion next year, but true beauty." He drew his hands down both sides of her face, his fingers tracing the delicate bones from temple to cheek to chin. "Whenever I look at you, I think of an ancient sibyl, wise and pure." Then, before she realized what he was about, he bent over and took hold of the hem of her loose nightgown and swept it straight up over her head.
Sara gasped in dismay, her appalled protest lost in the folds of fabric. When he had disentangled her and tossed the gown aside, she leaned over and snatched it from the floor. Blushing to the roots of her hair, she held the gown in front of her. It would have been embarrassing enough to be naked in front of a man for the first time in her life; far worse was being forced to confront the image of her own flawed body. More than a little angry, she said, "What is the point of this?"
"The point is for you to see yourself through my eyes. If you do, you cannot help but love your body." He put his left arm around her waist and firmly locked her against him so that once more she faced the mirror.
The lush velvet of his robe was web soft against her bare back and buttocks. Against his black grandeur, Sara saw herself as a plain, colorless figure who looked foolish in her less-than-successful attempts to cover herself.
With his right hand Mikahl pressed on her arm, lowering the concealing nightgown until she was bare above the waist. "You have a lovely body, delicate and feminine. Exquisite breasts."
He cupped one, and she caught her breath as sensation flared through her.
"And such a tiny waist." His right hand lightly skimmed over her body to illustrate his words. "I think I could span your waist with two hands, but I won't try now because if I let go of you, you'll dive under the blankets and refuse to come out until breakfast."
Sara bit her lip, disarmed into near-laughter at his gentle teasing. Humor began to dispel her embarrassment, and her grip loosened on the protective gown. Taking advantage of her relaxation, he pushed the gown lower yet, until it covered only her legs and the area usually associated with a fig leaf.
Caressing the curve of her hip, he said, "It is really quite wonderful, the way a woman is made. Try to see that."
And for a miraculous moment, she did see herself as he did: as a creature of subtle curves, soft shadows, and smooth surfaces, mysteriously female to his intense masculinity.
Mikahl bent and kissed her shoulder, and she inhaled sharply, both moved and aroused. Then he pulled the gown from her unresisting
fingers, leaving her completely uncovered.
Like a china plate smashing onto a stone floor, Sara's moment of soaring delight shattered at the sight of her right thigh. She tried to avoid looking directly at her disfigurement, even in the bath, but now she could not escape the sight.
As a permanent reminder of her near-fatal accident, two livid scars twisted across her leg. One scar was from her original injury, where she had struck a jagged branch that tore her flesh and smashed the bone. The other was from the excruciating surgery that came later.
Though it was a less obvious flaw, she was acutely aware that years of favoring her right leg had left it thinner and weaker than the left. During the seduction in the garden, she had felt protected by her masses of petticoats. Given the circumstances, she had decided later that Mikahl had not noticed the scars. But now she was exposed to his eyes, and her own.
With the bitterness of a decade's suppressed anger she snapped, "Do two exquisite breasts outweigh one ugly, crippled leg?"
Her question hung in the air, acrid as a witch's curse.
Mikahl said softly, "Sweet Sara, beauty is not a result of mere symmetry."
Then, to Sara's disbelieving shock, he knelt at her feet and kissed the longest scar, his lips warm and tender.
"Perfection would be boring, for the greatest beauty is often flawed, always unique," he murmured, his breath warm on her sensitive flesh as his tongue traced the gnarled ridge of tissue that curved around the inside of her knee. "A scar of the body cannot wholly destroy beauty. Only a scar of the spirit can do that."
His kiss was deeply erotic, sending tongues of flame licking into her intimate depths. But he was doing far more than stir her desire. His words were a gift of acceptance, of forgiveness for her flaws.
Looking down at his dark head, Sara began to shake, near collapse as a decade's worth of physical and emotional defenses crumbled. "Mikahl," she whispered. Partly as a caress, partly to support her unsteady body, she buried her fingers in the soft waves of his black hair.
She wanted to say something, but had no words for what he was doing to her, so she could only repeat helplessly, "Mikahl..."
He looked up and his grave eyes would have made her weep if she had not sworn off crying ten years before.
At the sight of her wordless anguish, her husband stood and lifted her with one arm under her knees and the other around her ribs. Then he carried her to the bed and set her on the cool white sheets, before lying down beside her and pulling her close against him.
An old, festering wound had been lanced, and Sara trembled as years of anger and self-hatred gushed forth. For a long time she hid her face against his shoulder, breathing in ragged gulps. Even to herself, she had never admitted how much she had resented her injury, or how she despised herself for the instant of carelessness that had killed her horse and crippled her.
As her shaking stopped and her breathing steadied, she became aware of mundane details like the sandalwood scent of the soap he used and the faint rasp of embroidery against her forehead. Gradually her world returned to normal, though she knew that she had changed forever, and for the better.
It was hard to believe that a few short weeks before, Sara had found Ross's closeness comforting, while Peregrine's was disquieting. The mysterious, unsettling foreign prince had been transformed to Mikahl, who was her husband, and in his arms she found solace.
Chapter 16
When Sara was in command of herself again, she lay back against the pillow and asked ruefully, "Are you licensed to practice surgery of the soul?"
"No formal training, but I've had some practical experience. Do you feel better or worse for having seen through my eyes?''
"Better. For a moment I did see myself as you do, and I was beautiful. That didn't last long—but I will never feel as ugly or crippled again." She made a face. "It must seem foolish to be so upset about scars that aren't even visible to the world."
"Ah, but surely the scars are just the surface of a very deep river. They stand for the years of pain when you forced yourself to learn to walk, when it would have been so much easier to stay an invalid, and for the occasional pain you will feel for the rest of your life."
Deliberately he laid his hand on her right thigh. "The scars also stand for loss—the loss of a young man you wished to marry, the loss of riding, dancing, and all the physical freedom that the healthy young never question." Gently he squeezed her leg. "And perhaps also they are a symbol of the fact that you can't always live up to your own high standards? You made a mistake." He removed his hand and drew the blanket up to her waist. "We all do. Learn to live with it."
Sara stared up at him, temporarily stunned by his insight. At length she said, "How do you know such things—sorcery?"
"Hardly." He shrugged. "I watch people. I try to understand them. It's a useful skill."
"An uncanny skill." Sara regarded him with curiosity mixed with some awe. "Do you understand yourself equally well?"
Mikahl looked surprised, then thoughtful. "Probably not. There is less practical value in self-knowledge."
Sara had to laugh. "You are quite incredible," she said affectionately.
"Not really," he said with a trace of dryness. "I am merely what my past has made me. It is just that no one else has such a past." His fingers drifted down her bare arm in a gentle, unthreatening caress. "Have you had enough lecturing and demonstrating for one night?"
"Actually, I find your ideas very interesting. I suppose someone from a different society can see this one more clearly. You are right that we English are often uncomfortable with our bodies." Though Sara found that she was not shy about her bare breasts, perhaps because of the admiring warmth in Mikahl's eyes.
He was still robed, probably because he did not want to alarm her with the sight of a powerful, naked male body. But she found the idea much less alarming than she had earlier. Her eyes fastened on the curling tuft of black hair visible at the throat of his caftan. "I've never even seen a square inch of bare male flesh below a man's collar.''
Seeing the direction of her gaze, he grinned. "That can be remedied whenever you like."
Sara blushed a little, preferring to keep the discussion abstract, at least for the moment. "Are sexual attitudes very different in other lands?"
He propped his head up on his left hand and regarded her with lazy-lidded eyes. "Everywhere it is recognized how much power and danger there is between men and women. Often desire is condemned, but not always. Sexual customs differ enormously."
His fingertips feathered down her throat, then across the top of her breasts. Though Sara was interested in his words, she found herself distracted by the pleasure that began humming through her.
Blandly he continued, "There is an interesting paradox between East and West. In your country, women have more freedom, so they must be taught to defend their own virtue. In contrast, in many Eastern lands women are virtual prisoners, separated from all men except their husbands. Curiously, this gives such women more freedom to be sensual.
"For example..." With his middle finger, he drew slow circles around her left breast, never quite touching the nipple. "While the early Christian fathers preached that sexual abstinence was the path to heaven, the ancient Taoist masters of China taught that nature is energy in constant, shifting motion.
"Two complementary principles are at work: the active energy, yang, and the receptive energy, yin. Yang and yin apply to all polarities: summer and winter, sun and moon, male and female. When the energies are in balance, life is healthy and harmonious. Hence, for a Taoist, sexual intercourse is a path to spiritual harmony. Man does not take and woman give—they share their energies in a search for mutual balance."
Sara's nipple stiffened, longing to be touched directly. Thinking that it was impossible to decide which was more erotic, his rich, deep voice or his skilled fingers, she asked, "I assume that men are yang and women yin?"
"Excellent! You have the mind of a philosopher." He transferred his tantalizin
g attentions to her other breast. "Though actually it is not quite that simple. Even the most aggressive man has some yin nature, and even the most passive woman has some yang."
It was becoming difficult to concentrate on ideas, but Sara did her best. "You must be very yang," she said, rather breathlessly. "Certainly you are very male."
"And you, silken Sara, are very yin—utterly and desirably female." He covered her breast with his hand, the gentle pressure both satisfying and rousing. Then, his intense gaze holding hers, he leaned over and kissed her.
His mouth was yang, aggressive and demanding, while hers was yin, receptive and yearning. Sara felt the melting desire to yield that his kisses always induced, and gladly she surrendered to the sensation.
Then, as the kiss lengthened, her energy began to change. She became more yang, wanting more of him, wanting to explore the depths of his mouth as he had explored hers. As she became more assertive, he also changed, became welcoming and receptive. And in the process, Sara discovered that to give and receive at the same time opened new vistas of delight.
Becoming dizzy from both desire and lack of air, finally she pulled her head away. Her lips an inch from his, Sara murmured, "What... what else do the Taoist masters say?"
"A great deal," he replied distractedly, his breathing as rough as Sara's.
Deciding to abandon theory and concentrate on practice, Peregrine lowered his mouth to her breast. The instant hardening of her nipple made him lose all interest in philosophy. For a time he gave himself up to the satisfactions of tasting her delicious breasts. Now that she was wed and no longer fearing him, Sara responded without reservation, and her innocent fire was the most potent aphrodisiac he had ever known.
He almost passed the point of no return without realizing it. His whole body throbbed with urgency, and he was fumbling with the sash of his caftan before he recognized just how near disaster was. Barely in time, he mustered the last shreds of his control and pulled away.