His fingers trailed down the inside crease of her thigh, almost tickling. She shivered.
“These are the labia majora.” He stroked up the other side.
Then something cold and wet trickled over her inner folds. She jumped a little and smelled the lemon, sharper in the air.
She felt him press the curved, slick lemon rind to her flesh. He slid it slowly through her wet folds. “These are the labia minora. But here”—he circled the top of her cleft with the lemon and then, abruptly and shockingly, pressed down—“is a problem.”
“A problem?” she squeaked.
“Mmm.” His voice had deepened to a near growl. “This is the clitoris. It was discovered by Signor Gabriele Falloppio in 1561.”
Helen tried to contemplate his words while he continued to press the lemon so exquisitely against her. Their meaning kept slipping away.
Finally she found her voice. “You mean… you mean no one knew of its existence until 1561?”
“That is what Signor Falloppio thought, although it does seem a little, well, unlikely.” He emphasized unlikely by tapping sharply with the lemon. She gasped. “But there is a further problem besides that one. You see, another Italian anatomist, a man named Colombo, claimed to have made the discovery two years prior to Signor Falloppio.”
“I think I feel sorry for these gentlemen’s wives,” Helen muttered. She was hot, the constant pressure of the cool lemon making her anxious. Aroused. She wished he would just finish and come make love to her.
But Alistair was obviously in no hurry. “Rather you should feel sorry for the wives whose husbands do not believe in the existence of the clitoris.”
She squinted at the ceiling. “Are there men like that?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” he murmured. He finally took the lemon away from her sensitive flesh, but now she felt contrarily bereft. “Some doubt there’s such a thing at all.”
And he slid the halved lemon slowly into her.
She gasped at the sensation. The cold citrus, his warm fingers. He twisted inside her, did something, and then withdrew his fingers, leaving the lemon inside.
“There are those who doubt that a woman feels any sensation at all when stimulated here.” He drew his finger up through her folds again until he tapped once more on her clitoris. “I think they are mad, of course, but a scientist always tests his theories. Shall we see?”
See what? Helen thought, but had no time to say, because before she could speak, his mouth had replaced his finger, and she had no way of speaking after that.
All she could do was feel.
He licked carefully, delicately, through the flanges of her sex, as if he wanted to taste every drop of the spilled lemon juice. And when he reached the top, he licked around her bud, in tighter and tighter circles until she was clutching at the sheets on either side of her in trembling ecstasy and had raised her knees to press against him. He took her legs and casually slung them over his shoulders without lifting his mouth from her. Instead, he held her hips more firmly, keeping her from arching away from him. He narrowed his tongue and darted it into her channel, and when she thought she might simply disintegrate from the sensation, he moved up again. He took that sensitive bit of flesh between his lips and sucked on it, gently and persistently.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t escape his determined lovemaking. She was moaning and panting, unable to control the sounds coming from her mouth. She’d tangled her fingers in his long hair at some point, and that lifeline was the only thing holding her earthbound. She tugged anxiously, inarticulate with need, for him to stop or continue—she didn’t know which, and it did not matter.
Nothing was stopping him.
Until light exploded behind her closed eyelids, and pure, almost painful pleasure radiated out from the center he still ministered to. She gasped, feeling tears welling in her eyes.
Feeling as if she’d touched heaven.
He continued to lick softly as she quieted, and then he rose, standing by the bed, examining her almost dispassionately as he shed his clothes.
“I don’t believe I shall ever taste a lemon and not think of you,” he said conversationally. He stripped his breeches off, and his penis rose, monstrously erect before him. “Think of this.”
He prowled up her spent form, his arms on either side of her, his weight making the bed sink beneath her. He took off her wrap and chemise as easily as undressing a doll, and she only watched him, her lids lowered lazily. He shifted and tugged her until she lay on the bed properly, and then he spread her legs again, as wide as he could. He lowered himself onto her.
She flinched slightly at his touch, her flesh still sensitive.
He bent his head until his lips touched her ear. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I must be in you now. I can no more refrain than I can stop breathing. Gentle.” He said this last because the head of his penis had nudged her entrance. “Relax. Just … let me.” He pushed an inch or so inside.
She breathed rapidly. She’d never been this sensitized. She felt as if a feather’s touch would make her shudder. And what he was introducing inside of her body was no feather. He slid a little farther in. She was very wet, but she was also swollen, ripe with arousal. She turned her head and licked at his jaw.
He froze. “Don’t—”
This time she carefully tested her teeth against his skin. No matter how casual his words, he was on a razor’s edge—she could tell by how stiffly he held his body—and a wicked part of her wanted to send him over that edge. Wanted to drive him to the brink of insanity.
She scratched her nails down his back.
“Helen,” he rasped, “that isn’t wise.”
“But I don’t want to be wise,” she whispered back.
That did it. Whatever thread that had held him snapped. He lunged, driving his length into her softness, pummeling her, thrusting into her, panting and uncivilized.
She wrapped her arms about him and held on as he plunged and writhed above her, watching him, watching his strong, scarred face. Even when the edges of her vision blurred and pleasure began to sweep over her in hot beats, she still forced her eyes open, watching, watching.
And he watched her back, his gaze locked with hers, his eye darkening as he neared his crisis. It was as if he strove to communicate something he could not say but could only demonstrate with his body. His lips twisted, his face flushed, and his mouth opened wordlessly, but he kept his eye locked with hers even as he pulsed hot life into her body.
Chapter Twelve
Thereafter, when the sorcerer relieved him from his guard duty, Truth Teller would hunt the mountain for the purple flower. It took some time, for he had only the light of the moon to search by, but eventually he had gathered enough buds to grind them into a powder. Then he set about finding two horses. This proved an even more difficult task, for the sorcerer kept no horses. But one night Truth Teller took what coin he had and hiked all the way down the mountain to a farm in the valley below.
When he awakened the farmer and explained what he wished to purchase, the man frowned. “Your purse is too small. I can only sell you one horse for that amount.”
Truth Teller nodded and gave the farmer all the money he had in the world. “So be it.”
And he hiked back up the mountain before dawn with only the one horse. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
Helen woke in the wee hours of the morning in Alistair’s bed. The embers of the fire still glowed in the hearth, but the candle sitting on the table by the bed had long ago guttered out. Next to her, Alistair’s breathing was heavy and slow. She’d not meant to fall asleep here. The realization brought her fully awake. She needed to return to her own room and her children.
With that thought, she quietly inched from the bed and padded to the mantel. There was a jar of tapers here, and she bent and lit one in the fire’s embers, then lit several candles so she could see to dress. She looked around. Her wrap was half under the bed, but she couldn’t see her chemise. Muttering softly to herself, she
took up the candle and approached the bed to look. The chemise wasn’t under or next to the bed. Finally she leaned over the great mattress, searching for the chemise amongst the bedclothes. She paused as the soft candlelight illuminated Alistair.
He lay sprawled on his back, one arm flung high over his head, the sheets pushed to his waist. He looked like a sleeping god, his muscled shoulders and arms dark against the white sheets. His face was slightly turned toward her, and she saw that he’d taken off his eye patch sometime during the night. She hesitated briefly before leaning closer to examine his exposed face. She’d only seen him without his eye patch on that first night at the door, so long ago now. Then, she’d been overwhelmed with a feeling of horror. That horror had taken precedence in her mind, wiping out any detailed impression.
She saw now that the eyelid on his missing eye had been closed and sewn shut. It was sunken, true, but beyond that, there was nothing more distressing than a normal closed eye would be. The rest of that side of his face was another matter, of course. A deep gouge ran diagonally across his face, starting below the closed eyelid and ending at a point near his ear. Below that was an area pitted and reddened, the skin thickened and leathery-looking, perhaps some kind of burn scar. Smaller white lines were scattered across his cheekbone, obviously the result of knife cuts.
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” he rasped.
Helen jerked, startled, only just missing dripping candle wax on his shoulder.
Alistair opened his eye to regard her calmly. “Are you examining the beast you let bed you last night?” His voice was deep. Rough from sleep.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured rather inanely. She saw now that her chemise lay half under his shoulder.
“Why?” he asked.
“What?” She yanked at the chemise, but he lay over most of it, and she couldn’t pull it out from under him without ripping the fine fabric.
He didn’t move. “Why be sorry? You have the right, after all, to see what your lover looks like under the mask.”
She gave up on the chemise for the moment and glanced about distractedly for the wrap instead. Really, it felt quite odd to be having a conversation whilst nude. “I didn’t want to seem, well, rude, is all.”
He grasped her wrist and pulled her toward him, taking the candlestick from her hand and setting it on the small table by his side of the bed. “It’s not rude to want to know the truth.”
“Alistair,” she said softly, “I must return to my own room. The children—”
“Are most likely sound asleep,” he murmured. He tugged at her arm, and she half fell across him, her breasts crushed to the heat of his chest. He leaned up and brushed his lips across hers. “Stay.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “You know that.”
“Do I?” he rasped against her lips. “Someday you’ll leave, but right now I know only that it’s very early and my bed is very cold without you in it. Stay.”
“Alistair…” She hadn’t seen this side of him before, this gentle, charming lover. He was very appealing like this, and her resolve wavered.
“Is it the eye? I can put the patch back on.”
“No.” She drew back a little to see his face. Truly, she was no longer shocked by the scars, horrible as they were.
He placed his large hand on the back of her head and gently drew her down. “Then stay a little longer. I haven’t had a chance to properly woo you.”
She drew slightly away, eyeing him uncertainly. “Woo me?”
A corner of his mouth curled in amusement. “Court. Dance attendance on. Woo. I’ve been remiss.”
“And what would you do if you were to woo me?” she asked, only half in jest. She’d never been wooed, not properly. Surely, he wasn’t referring to marriage, was he?
He cocked one arm beneath his head, his mouth still curled. “I don’t know. I’m a bit rusty at paying court to a beautiful woman. Perhaps I should compose an ode to your dimples.”
Startled laughter puffed from her lips. “You can’t be serious.”
He shrugged and reached up with his free hand to play with a lock of hair near her face. “If you can’t abide poetry, I’m afraid I’m left with carriage rides and bouquets of flowers.”
“You’d bring me flowers?” He was joking, she knew, but a small, silly part of her heart wanted to believe him. Lister had bought her expensive jewels and an entire wardrobe, but he’d never thought to give her flowers.
His beautiful brown eye met her own. “I’m not a sophisticated man, and I live in the country, so you’d have to make do with country flowers. Violets and poppies in the early spring. Michaelmas daisies in the fall. Dog roses and thistles in the summer. And in late spring I’d bring you the harebells that grow in the hills hereabouts. Blue, blue harebells the exact same blue as your eyes.”
And that was the moment she felt it: a loosening, a breaking free. Her heart slipped its traces and went racing away, beyond her grasp, beyond her control. Entirely free and racing toward this complex, vexing, and utterly fascinating man.
Dear God, no.
BY THE TIME Alistair rose that morning, it was later than usual, a result of a night spent making love to Helen—which, all things considered, was a wonderfully satisfactory turn of events. If he had the choice of starting his day early or laying abed with his housekeeper, he very much feared he’d choose the latter and happily damn the sunrise.
Right now, though, it was past his usual hour to rise. As it was, by the time he’d shaved and dressed and run down the stairs, he discovered that Mrs. Halifax was engrossed in airing one of the unused bedrooms. One hoped that one rated higher than mildewed linen in one’s lover’s estimation, but apparently this was not always so. Helen rather distractedly refused an offer of a ramble and then soothed his ruffled male feathers by blushing violently before returning her attention to ordering the servants about.
Alistair continued to the kitchens. He might’ve not pulled her away from her work, but a woman wasn’t entirely indifferent if she went red at a mere glance. He snatched a warm bun from a tray Mrs. McCleod had just taken out of the oven and strode out the back door, tossing the hot bread from hand to hand. The day was brilliantly sunny, perfect for a ramble. Whistling, Alistair went to the stables to get his old leather specimen satchel.
He greeted Griffin and the pony and then went to pick up his satchel, which was lying in a corner. The strong, acrid odor of urine assaulted his nostrils when he raised the satchel. Only then did he see the dark wet spot on the corner.
He stared for a second at the ruined satchel, and then he heard a whimper and swung around. The puppy sat behind him, tongue lolling, entire rear end wagging.
“Dammit.” Of all the places in the stable, the yard, the whole, wide world, why, why, did the animal pick his satchel to piss on?
“Puddles!” He heard Abigail’s high voice call to the puppy from outside.
Alistair followed the puppy from the stables, holding the stinking satchel away from his body.
Abigail was outside, picking up the puppy. She turned a startled face toward him as he came out of the stables.
He held up the satchel. “Did you know he did this?”
The look of confusion told him her answer even before she replied. “What did… oh.” She wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the satchel.
He sighed. “This is ruined, Abigail.”
A mutinous expression creased her little face. “He’s only a puppy.”
Alistair tried to tamp down his exasperation. “That’s why you are supposed to be watching him.”
“But, I was—”
“Obviously not or my satchel wouldn’t be full of piss right now.” He placed his hands on his hips, watching her, not entirely sure what to do. “Get a scrub brush and some soap, and I want you to clean this for me.”
“But it’s smelly!”
“Because you weren’t doing your duty!” Anger finally overcame his good sense. “If you can’t mind him, I’ll find someone els
e who can. Or I’ll simply return him to the farmer I bought him from.”
Abigail jumped to her feet, the puppy held protectively in her arms, her face red. “You can’t!”
“I can.”
“He’s not yours!”
“Yes,” Alistair said through gritted teeth, “he damn well is.”
For a moment, Abigail only sputtered. Then she shouted, “I hate you!” and ran from the courtyard.
He stared for a moment at the stained satchel. He kicked it viciously and then tilted back his head, his eye closed. What sort of idiot lost his temper with a child? He hadn’t meant to yell at her, but dammit, he’d had that satchel for years. It’d survived all his tramping through the Colonies, even his capture by the Indians after Spinner’s Falls and the voyage home. She should’ve been watching the puppy.
Still. It was just a satchel. He shouldn’t have bellowed at Abigail and made threats to the puppy that he’d never had any intention of fulfilling. Alistair sighed. He’d have to remember to somehow apologize to Abigail later while still making clear that she had to watch the damned puppy more carefully. Just the thought started a throbbing in his temple. Instead of taking his morning ramble, he went to his tower to work, wondering as he mounted the stairs why females, whether young or old, were so hard to fathom.
HE’D YELLED at her.
Abigail ran, trying to hold back tears, with Puddles in her arms. She thought Sir Alistair liked her. She’d begun to think that she liked him back. But now he was angry with her. His face had been stern, his forehead wrinkled in an ugly frown as he’d yelled at her. And the very worst thing was she was to blame. He was right. She hadn’t been watching Puddles closely enough. She’d let him wander into the stables alone while she looked at a beetle she’d found on the ground. But knowing that she’d been wrong had only made everything so much harder. She loathed being wrong. She loathed admitting her fault and apologizing. It made her shrink inside, like a tiny worm. And because she hated that feeling, because she knew he was right and she was wrong, she’d screamed at him and run away.