“Thank you,” she said rather breathlessly. “Am I allowed to comment on portions of your anatomy as well?”
“Mmm,” he murmured against her breast, sending little shivers down her spine. “Although I don’t know what you’d find to interest you. My body isn’t beautiful like yours.”
“Of course it is,” she said in surprise.
He arched an eyebrow skeptically. “My body is big and ugly and hairy—like all men.”
“Your body is big and beautiful and, yes, hairy. And I don’t know about most men, but to me it’s quite lovely.” She ran her hand down his chest. “Lovely and hairy. I like the way your hair is so thick here”—she patted his chest—“and then thins here”—she trailed her fingers over his stomach—“and then it thickens again down here, where—”
But she wasn’t allowed to finish. Even as she grasped that most masculine part of him, he took her shoulders and pushed her back in the bed, kissing her quite masterfully. When he raised his head to inhale, she looked at him with mock reproach.
“I hadn’t finished.”
“Well, I was about to,” he muttered.
She smiled and gently squeezed the penis she still held.
His eye closed for a moment and then opened, brighter than before. “And if you want this to last more than a minute, you’ll desist doing that.”
He gently pried loose her hand and shoved a muscular thigh between her legs. She could feel the hair on his leg rubbing against her moist flesh. She swallowed and arched up, grinding her pelvis against him.
“Witch,” he whispered against her neck.
He pressed down more firmly, holding her nearly immobile as he licked across her chest to a breast. This he took into his mouth and suckled leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world to savor her.
Helen squirmed.
“Stop that,” he growled, his voice vibrating against her damp skin.
“But I want to move,” she gasped.
“But I want to taste your nipples,” he retorted, and moved to the other breast.
She looked down, seeing only dark skin and darker hair moving over her white body. A shiver of erotic anticipation shook her. “I think you are obsessed with breasts.”
“No,” he murmured, levering himself up a little so he could cradle both her breasts in his big hands. He flicked her nipples idly as he talked, and she bit her lip. “I have an obsession with your breasts. I want to lick them, suck them, perhaps”—he leaned down to scrape his teeth over the curving side of one sensitive breast—“bite them.”
“Bite?” she squeaked.
He smiled, slowly and wickedly. “Mmm. Bite.”
And he lowered his head to take her nipple very gently between his teeth. She held her breath, the threat making her clench internally. He looked into her eyes, his hair falling forward like a pirate about his face, and raked his tongue against the tip of her nipple.
Her breasts had always been extremely sensitive. Helen could feel her breath coming quicker and quicker as he tortured that nipple. But when he closed his eye and sucked it into his mouth, drawing strongly, she clenched her thighs around his big leg and held on.
For long, passionate minutes, he licked and sucked and bit at her nipples until they were swollen, red, and glistening with his saliva. She moved agitatedly beneath him, entirely aroused yet unable to fulfill quite yet.
He reared up over her and studied what he’d done to her. His high cheekbones had a flush across them, his eyelid drooped lazily, and his lips were reddened from his ministrations yet were held in an almost cruel line.
“You look like a pagan sacrifice,” he growled low. “Prepared and laid out for some god to”—he leaned close and whispered in her ear—“fuck.”
She moaned at the forbidden word. No one had ever talked to her thus, made love to her thus. She was in a frenzy of neglected need.
“Touch me,” she begged, trying to widen her legs so that part of her could rub against his thigh.
He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a particularly interesting specimen. Only the rock-hard length of his cock, pressing against her thigh, belied his dispassion.
“I don’t know if you’re ready,” he murmured.
She glared. “I’m ready.”
“Are you?” He licked the side of her neck, sending anxious shivers along her oversensitive skin. “I wouldn’t want to engage you too soon. You might not experience the full effect of our lovemaking if I did.”
“You,” she panted half-hysterically, “are a devil.”
He grinned almost boyishly. “Am I?”
“Ye-sss.” Her assent ended in a moan because he’d shifted suddenly, bringing his penis in direct contact with her drenched folds. “Oh.”
“You like that?” he inquired solicitously.
She could only nod as he slowly drew himself through her. He thrust with a small, controlled movement, his cock tunneling against her. She swallowed, not even caring about the wet, squishing sounds they made.
“Then,” he purred, “perhaps you are ready. For this.”
And he reared back and shoved himself full-length inside her. She arched her neck at the shock, the thrill, of being filled so suddenly.
Then he was hitching himself up her, pushing apart her legs to their widest point and grinding himself down on her. Down on her clitoris.
Oh, bliss!
She was incoherent, past speech, past thought, past humanity. All her being was centered there, experiencing, receiving, his exquisite lovemaking. She didn’t even know when she started to come. It was one long, endless implosion of heat. She trembled uncontrollably.
And somewhere—sometime—during all this, she heard him growl and opened her eyes. He was on straight arms, levered above her, watching her as he made love to her. But now there was no way to mistake his expression for disinterest. Now his upper lip curled back in an erotic sneer. Now his face shone with effort and sweat. Now his one eye gleamed with dark intent.
Masculine intent.
As she watched, he speeded his thrusts until the bed thumped against the wall. She spread her legs farther and wrapped them high over his hips, watching his struggle until his face twisted as if in agony. A cry ripped from his throat, and he jerked against her one last time.
And she felt his strength fill her with warmth.
ALISTAIR THREW OUT an arm early the next morning, reaching for something he wanted on an instinctual level, and it wasn’t until he came fully awake that he realized both that it was Helen he searched for and that she was not there. He sighed and scrubbed his face with one hand. He still wore the eye patch from the night before, and it itched. He tore it off and flung it aside and then just lay there in the half light of morning.
His bed smelled of sex and Helen.
She’d left sometime the night before. He’d been so exhausted from their lovemaking that he wasn’t even entirely sure when. Of course, she’d had to leave. There were the children to think of, propriety, and his sister still in the castle, but damn, he wished she were here now. Not just so that he could make love to her again—although he wanted that, too—but he also wanted to lie with her. To feel her warm curves against his body. To hold her in his arms while he slept and to wake to find her still there.
While she let him. Because although she’d never said anything, he knew she wasn’t the type of woman who could live simply for the moment. Sooner or later, she would start to wonder about the future, perhaps question if she could spend it with him. And then, inevitably, she would discover that he had no future to offer her.
Then she would leave him.
Lowering thought. He pushed it aside, at least for the moment, because he’d learned that there was no use fighting fate. Eventually she would leave him; eventually he would mourn her, but not today. He threw back the covers, washed, retied the eye patch carefully, and dressed. Sophia had said that she’d be leaving this morning, and he fully expected her to be downstairs, impatiently waiting while her
bags were loaded into the carriage.
The hallway downstairs was deserted, however, when he stepped into it. He checked the front drive, but although the carriage did wait there, his sister was nowhere about. Perhaps she was taking breakfast. He strode back into the castle and made his way to the dining room, where he found one of the maids laying out silverware. She curtsied when she saw him.
“Is Miss Munroe about?” he asked.
“She hasn’t come down, sir,” the maid replied.
Alistair grinned. Sophia had overslept—a rarity and an occasion for ribbing. “Go up, please, and rouse her and Miss MacDonald. My sister wanted to make an early start this morning.”
“Yes, sir.” The maid curtsied again and scurried from the room.
Alistair found a basket of warm rolls on the sideboard and took one; then he wandered into the hallway again. He wanted to be present when his sister made her belated entrance. He munched on the bun, strolling down the hall toward the kitchens, and then he heard it. The sound sent a prickling chill down his back and turned the bun in his mouth to ashes.
Weeping. A child weeping.
Helen hadn’t gotten to this part of the castle yet, and there were several unused rooms off the ancient hallway. He strode from door to door until he located that forlorn sound, and then he pushed it open. The room was dim, dust motes floating in the feeble ray of sun creeping in from a dirty window. At first he couldn’t see her, until she moved and whimpered.
Abigail crouched in a corner, next to a sheet-draped settee, the puppy clutched in her arms.
He started forward slowly, not sure of the problem or if he could do anything about it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wiggins sneaking from the other door at the far end of the room.
Red washed over his vision.
He had no memory of moving, no memory of intent, but when next he was aware, he had Wiggins’s scrawny neck in his grasp, and he was throttling the life from the man and knocking his head against the flagstones in the hallway.
“Alistair!”
Someone close by called his name, but he was interested only in the foul, reddening face in front of him. How dare he? How dare he touch her? He wouldn’t again. Never, never again.
“Alistair!”
A soft, feminine palm was laid against his scarred cheek. Gentle pressure turned his head. Then he was staring into harebell-blue eyes. “Don’t, Alistair. Let him go.”
“Abigail,” he rasped.
“She’s fine,” Helen said slowly. “I don’t know what he said to her, but he didn’t physically harm her.”
That, finally, was the only thing that restored reason to his brain. He abruptly let go, straightening and backing up a step. Only then did he see that Sophia and Miss McDonald stood at the bottom of the stairs, still in their wrappers. Miss McDonald had one arm around a wide-eyed Jamie. Helen stood shivering only in a chemise. She must’ve run down the stairs without even stopping to put on a wrapper. And Abigail was behind her, her face tearstained as she held the puppy in her arms.
He took a deep breath to steady his voice and asked low, “Did he touch you?”
Abigail shook her head mutely, her eyes locked with his.
He nodded and looked back to Wiggins, who was gasping for breath on the hall floor. “Get out. Get out of my castle, get off my lands, and make sure you never show your face near me again.”
“Ye’ll regret this!” the little man rasped. “See if ye don’t. I’ll be back. I’ll take that little bitch—”
Alistair balled his fists and took a step toward him. In a flash, Wiggins was on his feet and running out the castle doors.
He closed his eye, trying to regain his civilized mask, and felt little arms encircle his waist. He knelt, his eye still closed, and wrapped that small body in his arms.
“Never again,” he whispered into her hair, so like her mother’s. “I’ll never let another hurt you again. I promise.”
Chapter Eleven
The next evening, Truth Teller let the swallows out of their cage for a third time. The sorcerer had barely run from the courtyard when the monster turned into Princess Sympathy, and Truth Teller approached the cage.
“How can I free you?” he asked.
The princess shook her head. “It is a dangerous task. Many have tried and all have failed.”
But Truth Teller merely looked at her and said, “Tell me.”
The princess sighed. “If you were to do this thing, you must first drug the sorcerer. In these mountains grows a tiny purple flower. You must gather the buds of this flower and grind them into a powder. When the time comes, blow the powder into the sorcerer’s face, and he will be unable to stop you for as long as the light of the moon is upon him. Take his milky-white ring and bring it to me. Lastly, you must have ready two horses, the swiftest you can find, so that we may flee him.”
Truth Teller nodded. “I will do these things, I swear.…”
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen watched Alistair enfold Abigail in his arms, and something twisted and broke open in her heart. He held Abigail so tenderly. It was impossible not to make the obvious comparison. Alistair held the little girl like a father would. Except her real father had never held her.
The sight shook her to her core. He’d made love to her as if they were the only ones in the world last night, and now he comforted her daughter with rough tenderness. She realized with a shock that she was falling in love with him, this angry, lonely master of the castle. Perhaps she was already in love with him. And her heart beat faster in near panic. If there was one thing she’d learned in her chaotic, illogical, foolish life, it was this: Love made her make incredibly stupid decisions. Decisions that put herself and her children in jeopardy.
Adding to that unpleasant thought was another awful realization. She was still confused—dazed and startled awake from sleep—but she knew in her soul that Alistair had saved her daughter. Saved her when she had failed.
She closed her eyes as a sob shuddered through her body.
“Take this,” Miss Munroe said gruffly, draping a cloak over her shoulders. “You look cold.”
“I’m such a fool,” Helen whispered. “I never thought—”
“Don’t castigate yourself until you’ve spoken to the girl,” Miss Munroe said.
“I don’t see how I can’t.” Helen wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I really don’t.”
“Mama.” Jamie inexplicably shoved himself between them and clutched at her skirts.
“It’s all right, Jamie.” She gave one last sniffle and determinedly straightened. “Breakfast must be ready. Let’s all go get properly dressed, and then we can eat. That’ll make us feel better.”
Alistair looked at her over Abigail’s head. He still hadn’t entirely composed himself. His eye glittered with a feral violence. He’d been in the act of killing Mr. Wiggins when she’d reached the hall. Even now she wasn’t sure that he would’ve stopped on his own had she not compelled him to look at her. She shivered. The evidence of this uncivilized, primitive part of him should frighten her. But oddly, instead of making her more fearful, that savage side of him made her feel safe. Safe in a way she hadn’t felt since she’d been a child living in her father’s house. Back when the complications of adulthood had not yet intruded on her life.
She shivered, aware that she was vulnerable right now—too vulnerable. She was awash in conflicting emotions, and they left her defenseless to him. She needed to get away, if only for a little while, and compose herself.
She swallowed, and taking Jamie’s hand, she held the other out for Abigail. “Come, my love. Let’s settle ourselves.”
Abigail placed her hand in hers, and Helen had to stop herself from squeezing too tightly. She wanted to run her fingers over her daughter’s head, look her in the eyes, and see for herself that Abigail was fine, but at the same time, she didn’t want to add to her daughter’s trauma. Better to calm down and question her gently.
“We’ll be back down in a
few minutes,” she said to Alistair, her voice trembling just a little.
Then she led her children to their room. Jamie had apparently recovered from whatever worry had plagued him. He hurried into his clothes and then sat on the bed with the puppy.
Meanwhile, Helen poured water from the pitcher on the dresser into a basin. She took a cloth, wet it, and gently wiped Abigail’s face. It’d been years since she’d helped Abigail dress. Miss Cummings had done the chore in London, and on their journey north, Abigail had mostly been able to get herself ready. But this morning, Helen carefully washed the tearstains from her daughter’s face. She prompted Abigail to sit and then knelt at her feet to roll on her stockings, tying the garters over her knees carefully, each movement deliberate and calm. She drew on Abigail’s underskirt and skirt, fastening them at the waist.
When Helen picked up the bodice, Abigail finally spoke. “Mama, you don’t have to.”
“I know, dearest,” Helen murmured. “But it’s a funny thing that sometimes mothers enjoy dressing their daughters. Can you indulge me?”
Her daughter nodded. Her cheeks had regained the faint color they usually held, and her face was no longer stricken. Helen’s fingers fumbled on the laces as she remembered the awful expression on Abigail’s face when she’d come to the bottom of the stairs. Dear God, if Alistair hadn’t been there . . .
“There,” Helen said softly when the bodice was laced. “Hand me the brush and I’ll do your hair.”
“Can you braid it and put it in a crown?” Abigail asked.
“Of course.” Helen smiled. She sat on a low stool. “I’ll make you a princess.”
Abigail turned around, and Helen began stroking the brush through her hair. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Abigail’s thin shoulders lifted, and her head ducked as if she were a turtle withdrawing into a shell.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Helen murmured, “but I think we must, dearest. At least once. And then, if you wish, we’ll never discuss it again. Would that be all right?”