His hand caressed her back, unfastening her gown, each button that surrendered to his touch making her quake with desire, each brush of his hand against bare skin sizzling to the core of her femininity.
Her own fingers trembled as they found his buttons, fumbling them through their holes until the cloth gaped, revealing honey-bronzed skin, a dark dusting of hair that tantalized her fingers, ridges of muscle her fingers burned to trace.
She had spent so much of her girlhood fending off the attentions of the men in the slums, to whom virginity was merely a resource being wasted, an avenue that could lead to coins that could keep flagons filled with gin. She'd defended her virtue like a tigress because of an impossible dream, that Tristan Ramsey would be the man to show her passion. That he would take her to his bed and touch her, delight in her, and she could truly belong to him one day. But today had been a day of dreams come true. In this, her final dream, she could trace the contours of his body, plunder the honeyed sensuality of his mouth, delve into the hidden sensitivity that clung about his dark lashes.
She whimpered as Tristan stripped her gown down her shoulders, letting her garments float one by one to the floor, like the fallen petals of a lily.
Tristan groaned, his gaze devouring as it moved from her tumbled curls to the creamy column of her throat, then lower, to where her breasts shone, alabaster in the candlelight, their crests budding rosy-pink, yearning for his touch so fiercely they ached from it.
"You're beautiful, Alaina," Tristan breathed, reaching up one finger to trace the curve of her breast, his fingertip brushing the pearled tip of her nipple. "You're so damn beautiful. I don't deserve this gift."
"It's not yours to deserve. It's my wish, Tristan. My gift."
"Then why am I on fire for you, Alaina? Why have I never felt such craving to touch, to taste? Why do I want you so much I can't bear to wait another heartbeat?"
He scooped her into his arms, and she curled against his bare chest, kissing whatever she could reach—his jaw, the cords of his throat, his beard-stubbled cheek.
He lifted her onto the bed, then straightened, stripping off his shirt and flinging it over a gilt-legged chair. His eyes never left her face, their dark depths alive with hunger as his deft artist's fingers worked the fastenings of his breeches, then dragged them off as well.
He stood at the bedside, gloriously naked, every dip and plane and steely curve of his body gleaming in the candlelight. Never had Alaina seen anything so breathtaking. He was more beautiful than the image of David that Michelangelo had discovered, hidden in a block of marble. More entrancing than the slumbering Adonis who had captured the love of both Persephone and Aphrodite. For what perfect hero of myth or statue of marble could radiate such passion, such vulnerability, such strength and tenderness with the merest flicker of his eyes, curve of his lips?
Astonished at her own boldness, Alaina reached out a fingertip to touch him. She could feel a shudder of pleasure, raw, untamed, jolt through Tristan. She leaned toward him and pressed her lips against his thundering heart.
He climbed into the bed beside her, drawing her into his arms, kissing her with such hunger it humbled her, awed her, his lips finding the pulse beat at the base of her throat, then trailing fervent kisses to one of her breasts. One large hand engulfed it with worship-filled tenderness, shaping it until the nipple just brushed his lower lip. His breath was hot and hungry and sweet, and she quivered, arching her back, pressing the aching nub between his lips. He took it into that dark, wet haven, suckling her with a tender ferocity that made her tremble, made her moan.
One sinewy thigh eased across her hips, drawing her tighter into his embrace until she was body-long against him, every inch of her burning with the imprint of hard masculine flesh. Chest and thigh, belly and hips, the hard ridge of his arousal cradled against the downy cove between her thighs.
And she wanted more of him—to drink in every sensation, every caress until she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak.
"Ah, Alaina, so soft, so warm," he murmured. "Do you know how badly I've wanted this? From the moment you first fell into my arms."
She whimpered in pleasure, pain, wishing she could tell him the truth. That she had loved him for an eternity. That she had dreamed of making love with him forever.
He traced the delicate arc of her rib cage, ghosted his touch along the slight swell of her belly, then dipped lower.
She cried out, arching against his hand as his fingers found tender, pink flesh, the callused pad brushing a place where every desire seemed centered.
"Open for me, love. Let me show you ..."
She let her legs fall farther apart, allowing Tristan and his magic to consume her, trusting him utterly, loving him completely. He teased her, tormented her, treasured her, and Alaina could feel the cold walls he'd built to shield his artist's soul trembling, melting, shattering with each slick, honeyed circle he made on her tender bud.
"I want... need you inside me, Tristan, a part of me forever. I can't—can't bear it—" she choked out, her own fingers seeking the hard length of him, the surging power between his thighs. He arched against her hand, his breath hissing between clenched teeth.
"Now, angel. Let me take you now." He knelt between her thighs, pressed the tip of his sex against her. Alaina arched, writhed, her fingers clutching at the rippling muscles of his back.
"Please, Tristan—"
He thrust his hips forward, and Alaina gave a choked cry of pain. She felt it lance through him, felt him stiffen, a muffled curse breaching his lips as he breached her untried body.
"What the— No! You've never . . . Why, Alaina? Why didn't you tell me?"
She drifted her fingertips across the lines of sensitivity carved about his beautiful mouth.
"Because then you wouldn't have granted my wish. And I wanted you, Tristan. Wanted you buried deep inside me." The way you are buried in my heart.
"Please, Tristan," she whispered. "My wish was that it would be wonderful. No regrets."
His lips curved with gentle awe. "How could I regret finding you? Your hands touching me, the dreams in your eyes that make me believe ... in angels and miracles and love, Alaina. Love . . ."
He touched her as if they had forever instead of just this night. He savored every caress as if this were the only chance a man would get to make love to a woman in all of time. Every sweep of his hands was as filled with magic as the stroke of brush upon canvas. He poured all the colors of his imagination into her soul as he thrust into her body again and again, painting for her one perfect night when there was no pain or hunger or dream that couldn't come true.
She rose up to meet him, drawing him into the sheath of her body, as if she could banish all pain and bitterness, give back to him the years he'd lost, the passion he'd sacrificed, the joy that had once been as much a part of him as his sensitive hands and generous heart.
She would have given anything to freeze time, stop it forever. Instead, she clung to him more fiercely, trying to brand every sinew of him into her memory, for the long, lonely nights ahead.
She sought out the hot splendor of his kiss, her soul whispering secrets to his, secrets locked away far too long, like the paintings in the attic—love so intense even eternity couldn't dull its luster.
And when she shattered, pleasure exploding through her in exquisite waves of fulfillment, she held him fiercely in her arms as he sought his own release.
It burst upon him, tearing a groan from his chest. And he flung back his head, driving deep into her body, spilling his very soul into her again and again and again.
He collapsed against her, a delicious weight she never wanted to be free of. They lay there, and Alaina could taste Tristan's awe because it mirrored her own.
It seemed an eternity before he rolled to one side, carrying her with him, nestled against his sweat-sheened chest. His voice was raw, uncertain, yet filled with something new—hope.
"Who are you, Alaina?" He breathed the question into the passion-tossed b
illows of her hair. "I know I remember you—something about you from the first moment I saw you in the drawing room. I feel as if I've known you from the beginning of time."
Alaina buried a small, heartbroken smile against his skin, knowing the price she'd pay for this night would be an eternity of reaching for him in the darkness and the savage pain of discovering he wasn't there.
"I'm only a face in the window, Tristan," she said.
He looked at her, heaven in his eyes. "You're more than that, Alaina. Much more. Tomorrow you'll tell me. I'll love you until the truth spills out."
Tomorrow. She wouldn't be here tomorrow, Alaina thought, aching with the pain of it. Tomorrow she'd be gone.
Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to shed them. She had the rest of her life for tears. But tonight was hers.
She kissed Tristan, stroked him, joy soaring inside her as she felt his passion rise. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he rolled her beneath him. And as the pearl of a moon drifted on its path to the newborn day, they made love again and again, as if it were the last night on earth.
Dawn was a peach-hued promise upon the horizon when Alaina stole from the bed, not even daring to give Tristan a parting kiss. She couldn't risk waking him. It was better this way, that she slip out of his life before he opened his eyes. She couldn't bear to say farewell to him or to the boy who lay slumbering in the nursery.
To answer the questions he'd asked the night before would be to see the light die in his eyes as he realized that there could be no future between a ballad seller's child and a businessman respected by half of London. These people would scorn Tristan if he dared to love her, would shun him.
She should be grateful for her Christmas of magic, take comfort in the fact that she'd had enough miracles to last her a lifetime. She drew on her gown and stood a moment more, watching Tristan dream. The planes of his face had been gentled in their loving, peace brushed in light and shadow about his handsome features. She had given that peace to him. This should be enough for her.
It might have been, if her body hadn't been crying out for one more touch, one more kiss. If her heart hadn't been breaking at the thought of never looking into those dark eyes again and seeing awed passion reflected back at her.
No. Her task was finished here. Her work was done. Together, Tristan and Gabriel would build a life full of painting and promise and wishing on stars. If only she could be there to see Tristan's hair turn silver at the temples, watch his eyes glow with pride in the man Gabriel would become one day. If only she could share all the joy and sorrow the years would bring, give him more children to fill the house with mischief, and when life was through, cling to Tristan's hand, her heart filled to the brim with sweet memories when she closed her eyes for the last time.
She crushed the image that was shattering her heart. No. It was impossible. There was no place for her in Tristan's world. She'd known from the time she was a child there never would be.
She crossed to the desk in the corner, took pen and ink, and scribed a brief message. On tiptoe, she crept to the side of the bed, laying the note upon her pillow. Then she slipped from her pocket the most precious possession she had: a guinea, dulled by child fingers that had clung to it in the dark of night like a talisman. The coin's top had been pierced by a nail long ago, a frayed ribbon strung through the hole so she could wear it next to her heart.
You'd better take it. It's my wish that you do, and Christmas wishes are magic... The echoes of a bold boy's voice rippled through her memory as she lay the makeshift necklace tenderly upon the pillow beside him.
"Good-bye, Tristan," she whispered. "You'll be all right now. I know it. But you and Gabriel will have to watch over each other now that I'm gone."
She turned and fled the room, tears streaming down her cheeks, a lifetime of sobs bursting in her chest as she hastened down the sweep of staircase.
At the drawing room doorway she paused, peering at the Christmas tree one last time. Its branches were plundered, the candles extinguished, the table littered with playthings and gingerbread and a set of paints that had made Tristan's eyes shine with the possibility that there was still time to recapture what he'd lost.
There, tucked beneath the tree lay a new object, wrapped in white cloth. A bit of paper lay atop it. For Alaina ...
Echoes from last night rippled through her. Come downstairs, I have a surprise for you...
A gift from Tristan. She reached out a finger to touch it, knowing that if she did, she'd never have the strength to leave him. Her fingers curled into a fist. No. The time for presents and dreams was past.
Time ... Her gaze snagged on the clock above the mantel. Silent. Still.
She stole over and opened the tiny glass door, setting the pendulum in motion. The magic was over. Time was beginning again.
Eleven
TRISTAN STIRRED AWAKE TO THE SHIMMER OF SUNLIGHT, an unfamiliar eagerness pulsing through him: hope, Alaina's gift, during their night of loving.
He rolled to his side, one hand closing on the place where Alaina had slept the night before. Only a crackle of paper answered him.
She was gone.
He forced himself upright, his heart hammering as his gaze locked on the pillow, a dull throb of panic beating at his temples. His fingers caught up the note, his eyes scanning it in desperation.
Dear Tristan,
Even we could not stop time forever. You asked who I am, why I came to aid Gabriel when he made his Christmas wish. It is because you changed my world one Christmas long ago. I return to you the Christmas guinea you gave to me. The coin was magic, just as you said, because it showed a whole new world to me. One filled with kindness and gentle voices. A place where there were always arms to hold you when you cried.
Because of you, I worked to make myself fit for that world, learned to read and to sew and to speak as a lady might. But we both know that can never change who I am—the ballad seller's child who followed your Christmas pony through the snow.
Tristan closed his eyes for a heartbeat, the memory flooding through him: huge golden eyes with a shimmer of pride buried deep. A thin, grubby hand stroking the creamy mane of his pony. A sudden, startling kinship of spirits forged in an instant. A ragged urchin who had haunted him long after Christmas had passed, until he had curled up at his sketchbook and captured the image of that same little girl in one of Beth's angel-white dresses, curled up on a stool beside a pencil-drawn fire.
How many Christmases had he wondered about that little girl as the years passed? Wondered if she had enough to eat, if she was still so very brave. He dragged his gaze back to the letter, his chest aching.
I had never had a Christmas before, but this was so beautiful it will last a lifetime. Give Gabriel my love, and tell him that his father was truly the angel—my angel when I was lost and hungry and cold. You promised me that Christmas wishes are magic when you gave me this coin. Keep it and my wish for you. Be happy, Tristan. Even when I am half a world away, I'll be watching over you.
Alaina
"No!" Tristan's voice tore, ragged. He bolted from the bed, snatching up his breeches and shirt, dragging them on. "Alaina?" he bellowed, racing down the stairs. "Alaina! Don't leave me! You can't leave me!" As he reached the drawing room, he heard it, his heart stopping at the sound—the delicate chime of bells that struck the hour. She'd started the clocks again. The magic was over.
Agony poured through him, fiercer than anything he'd ever known. He flung on his cloak, shoved his feet into boots.
"Papa?" Gabriel stood at the head of the stairs, his eyes wide and alarmed. "What's wrong?"
"It's Alaina! She's gone!"
"Did she go up to heaven without even saying good-bye?" The child's lower lip trembled.
"If she did, boy, I'll follow her there. I'll bring her back. I swear it."
He plunged out into the winter chill, calling her name.
It was past midnight when he trudged home, soul-weary, half frozen. He'd searched every coaching in
n, every train station and shipyard, every place he could think of. He'd plunged down into the twisted labyrinth of Fleet Street, where the poor clustered in their misery. But it was as if God himself had reached down his hand to carry her away.
Burrows met him at the door, mournful. Tristan didn't even have to tell the old servant that he'd failed. "You'll find her tomorrow, Master Tristan," Burrows said, removing the snow-spattered cloak. "I'm certain that the dear miss couldn't have gotten far. You've countless business connections. It should be easy enough to get up a search."
"For one threadbare woman among countless others? Where could she be? God, where would she go? She must be hurting so badly, leaving Gabriel, believing that I—that I would have rejected her the moment I knew the truth about who she was, where she'd come from."
He crossed to the drawing room, where the tree still shimmered, its beauty barely faded, his gift to her tucked beneath it, unopened; the kissing bough still dangled, its ribbons bright in the firelight. Curled there beneath the shadow of the tree, Gabriel lay sleeping in his nightshirt, his rag-stuffed horse cuddled close, the fairy pin glinting on its shabby coat. Had the boy spent the whole day in this chamber, wishing for his angel to return?
Trudging to the wing chair, Tristan sank down on it, burying his face in his hands. "Where are you, angel?" he murmured against his palm. "God, if I could only tell you ... But you're not here anymore, watching me through the window. I'll spend forever staring out, wondering where you are. If you're safe and warm. If you're hungry. Where would you run to, Alaina, when you're hurting?"
Gabriel whimpered in his sleep, and Tristan stripped off his frock coat, nestling its warm folds about his son. As he straightened, his gaze snagged on the sparkling expanse of the window.