He stopped and lifted up on his arm. Desperate with want, she started to turn over, but he imprisoned her against him, his hand warm over her breast, her back against his chest, his cock hard against her. “Do you feel this, my love?” he whispered, his voice more growl than else. He ran his hand over the curve of her hip and slipped his hand between her thighs. He stroked her, showing her what madness pleasure could be.
She gasped, but he didn’t stop, the roughness of his calloused fingers never still. He stroked, insistent and firm as she arched wildly against him. It was such an intimate touch, and heated longing grew inside her.
He must have sensed she was ready, for just as she gasped his name, he flipped her onto her back, positioned himself between her thighs, and took her with a rough passion. She answered in kind, her legs wrapped around his hips, one hand clutched in his thick hair, the other splayed on his lower back as she met him, thrust for thrust. Somewhere in the madness, there was a faint pain, but it was obscured when, shocking and thorough, waves of pleasure wracked her.
Oh God, nothing had ever felt so good. She clung to him, unable to think, struggling to breathe as he buried his face in her neck, gasping her name as he collapsed beside her, as spent as she.
For the longest time, they remained where they were, entwined and breathless. Charlotte soaked in the feel of him, aware of every sensation, every feeling. She savored the weight of his shoulder where it rested against hers, the warmth of his skin, the stickiness of her thighs, the sweetness of his breath where it brushed her bared neck. I could stay here forever and never want for another thing.
But that wasn’t true of course, and to her chagrin, her stomach rumbled.
Marco lifted his head. “You, my lady, have worked up an appetite.”
She opened one eye. “A gentleman would have ignored that.”
He laughed and moved against her, his thigh rubbing hers as he buried his face against her neck to murmur, “What more must I do to convince you that I’m no gentleman?”
She slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Oh, I will.” He pulled her closer. They stayed there, the sun warming their bared skin. He rested his head on her shoulder and ran his hand lightly over her stomach and then up to her breast. Back and forth he trailed his fingers, stirring her body back to life.
This time, she ignored the trembling. As much as she hated to destroy this perfect moment, there were things that must be dealt with. She took a steady breath, and then said quietly, “This changes everything.”
His hands stilled. He was silent for a long time. “It cannot.”
“But it has.”
He lifted up on his elbow, his brows knit. “Charlotte, we—”
“Yes. We. Not you, making decisions for us. But us, making decisions for us. That’s what a ‘we’ is.”
He frowned. “I was doing what was best for us.”
“No, you were doing what you thought was best for us. There is no one answer to life. Caroline’s death taught me that.”
His gaze never left her face. “What do you suggest?”
“We are still discovering things about one another.”
“That’s an optimistic way to say we don’t know one another well enough.”
“I’ve been told by an expert that if two people are in love, that even if they were to live together a thousand years, they would still be learning things about one another.”
He dropped his forehead to hers. “God, but I want to believe you.”
“Then do. Take a chance on us, Marco. I’m willing to.”
He shook his head. “You would never be happy if your family broke with you. I don’t want to be the cause of that.”
“Then we’ll have to see to it that they don’t overreact. That they come to see you as I do.”
“Your mother may not see it as ‘overreacting.’”
Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps we’ve given her too little credit. But it doesn’t matter, this is a chance I must take. A chance we must take together.”
He looked as if he wanted to believe her so badly, and yet was afraid of doing so. “You make it seem so simple.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe we’re the ones who’ve made it difficult. And maybe . . . maybe it doesn’t matter.”
She watched as he thought through her words.
Into this quiet, he surprised her with a chuckle.
“What?”
“You said you didn’t have the mark of Nimway.”
She looked at him. “I don’t.”
His smile faded. “But . . . you do. I saw it. It’s on your shoulder right where—
She sat up, straining to look.
And there it was. An oval mark, paler than Caroline’s had been, to be sure, but an oval just the same. Shocked, she looked at Marco. “I’m the guardian.”
“Apparently so.” He pulled her back into his arms. “You didn’t know.”
“I never saw it. It . . . it didn’t used to be there.”
“Well, now it is. Perhaps the sun brought it out like a freckle.” He tucked her against him and rested his cheek against her hair.
“Perhaps,” she said, although she didn’t believe it. She was the guardian. What did that mean, she wondered. What if . . . what if it means whatever I want?
For some reason, the thought made her smile. She wasn’t the only one with the mark; Mama had it, too, just like Caroline.
Marco pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You are right. Perhaps I was hasty in assigning us to failure.”
“Oh, you were hasty. You very hasty.”
He chuckled. “Then let me show you how unhasty I can be.” He bent to kiss a trail from her neck to her shoulder and lower, sending shivers through her yet again.
Chapter 12
Marco stepped back from the pillars and ran his fingers over the smooth, polished stone. He was almost done. It was late, but he’d been too restless to sleep, his thoughts churning over his time with Charlotte. Because he was so invigorated, he’d used the wild energy on his work. He’d sanded and shaped, chiseled and polished, even as he thought about her, her words, the shape of her breasts – every delicious detail. Letting his mind wander had awoken his muse and to his deep satisfaction, the faces had appeared under the tip of his chisel without the use of a single sketch.
Pietro came inside, yawning widely. “You’re still up! Did you see the basket of potato cakes from Cook?”
“I did. That was very kind of her. I’d ask you to relay my thanks, but I’m sure you already have.”
Pietro grinned. “I have indeed. I—” His gaze fell on the statues. “You’re almost finished.”
“I am.”
Pietro slowly walked around the statues, squinting at the graceful lines of a toga. “good. Very good. Once the Queen sees this, she will want you to make fifteen new fireplaces for her palaces.”
Marco traced his finger over a marble-smooth shoulder. “Sadly, that will not happen.”
The stonemason cocked a shaggy brow. “What?”
“Suppose there was no reference to the Queen. No commission. No anything.”
“Why would that happen? You’ve done a magnificent job with this work. There’s no reason why Mrs. Harrington wouldn’t recom—” The old man’s face froze. “You didn’t.”
Marco tried not to look guilty. And indeed, he didn’t feel guilty, but he wondered if he should. “I have decided to make my way without Mrs. Harrington’s recommendation.”
“It’s more than that. What will you do when she tells the world you’re not to be trusted with their daughters!” Pietro cursed heavily. “I knew this would happen. The way you two looked at each other, it was only a matter of time. You’re just like your father, always dreaming about tomorrow and not doing enough for today.”
“My father was happy when he was with my mother,” Marco said sharply. “It’s all he wanted. And I’ve realized that’s all I want, too.”
“And what of your f
amily?”
“My brothers and sisters are no longer children. I keep thinking they are because I’ve been taking care of them for so long, but just look at them. They are already making their own way in the world, and could have been doing so much sooner had I let them. Besides, I know that they’ll want me to be happy, too. It’s what I would want for them.”
“It will make things harder for them and you and everyone,” the stonemason warned.
“I know.”
“You might never make a decent commission again.”
“Then I will deal with it.” No, he and Charlotte would deal with it, together.
Pietro threw up his hands. “You di Rossis, always spouting about true love. I will never understand it.”
Marco chuckled.
The stonemason rubbed his neck. After a long while, he sighed. “I suppose there’s nothing more to be said. It won’t be easy, but you’re right; it isn’t the end of the world, either.”
“Exactly. I can work in other countries, where I’m not yet known, and build my reputation there. Charlotte would enjoy traveling, and—”
Pietro threw up his hand. “I don’t need to know all of your thoughts on the subject!”
“I’m sorry. I’m just happy.”
“I suppose that’s good,” the old man said grudgingly. He looked at the statues for a long minute and then sighed. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should do what you must. And wherever you go, I’ll be glad to join you.”
“Thank you,” Marco said, touched by the stonemason’s dedication.
Pietro, his face suspiciously red, jerked his head toward the statues. “Now finish those, will you? If we have to make a quick getaway, it would be better not to have to haul slabs of stone with us.”
“We should be able to install it tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll let Cook know I’m not long for her world. She will be truly sorry to see me go and will most likely ask me to spend the night. She has a nice bed, she does. And lots of pillows.” Pietro ambled toward the door. As he did so, he cast a final glance at the pillars, and then stopped.
A smile split his face, the like of which Marco had never seen. “Your figures have changed since you first designed them.”
Marco glanced absently at the pillars. “What’s changed?”
“Everything. You’ve made them more—” The old man held his hands in front of his chest. “—bigger.”
“You’re crazed. This is exactly how I sketched them.”
A noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort broke from the stonemason. He slapped a hand over his mouth and pretended to cough. As soon as he could speak, he blurted out, “Until later, then.” He ducked out the door and hurried away.
Marco could hear the man’s laughter all the way across the stable yard. What in the hell is that about? He examined the statues. Was Pietro right? Marco was sure he’d envisioned them this way from the beginning. He never veered once the muse arrived. That fool doesn’t remember what I sketched.
Scowling, Marco went to his workbench and found his folio. He found his original sketches and glanced through them. As he did so, his eyes widened. Good God. He’s right. The sketches showed two graceful poses of the same woman, as did his carving, but there the similarities ended. The goddess in his sketches was slender and winsome, fairylike in contour, while the goddess he’d carved was curvaceous, her hips and breasts full, her thighs more rounded, more like—
He lowered the sketches and turned back to the pillars, examining the face he’d carved just this evening. He dropped the papers onto his work table, unaware that half of them fell to the floor. I couldn’t have, not without knowing . . . But he had. He knew that curvaceous, seductive body because he’d touched it. Knew that neck because he’d kissed it. Without thinking, he’d carved each figure with one leg slightly bent, which hid the curve of her back. He knew every inch of this goddess from the delicate feet, to the bold nose, to the curls that clustered about her delicate neck.
He rubbed his eyes, and then looked again, wondering if he was imagining things.
But he wasn’t.
Suddenly, he was laughing as hard as Pietro. “Oh Charlotte, what have I done?”
Chapter 13
The light would not go away.
Charlotte, pulled from a deep dream where she and Marco were sailing away in a lovely ship on a sparkling still sea, fought waking up as if her life depended upon it. She didn’t want to wake up, she wanted to stay on the ship with Marco and—
The light pulsed, and she threw up her hand to shield her eyes from the annoying lantern glow. Muttering to herself, she peeked through her fingers, ready to banish whoever was holding the bloody thing to the devil. But it wasn’t a lantern at all. Instead, the mace head sat in her window, the moonstone reflecting the full moon that filled the night sky.
She’d never seen it burn so brightly. Rubbing her eyes, she threw her feet over the edge of the bed and went to where it sat, astonished at the brightness. Who in the world had put this here? She’d have a word with Simmons in the morning. It was too late now, for the house was silent, everyone asleep.
It had been a lovely day. Marco and his servant had spent most of it in the dining hall installing the new surround, hidden behind a wall of tarps that they’d hung over tall chairs to block their work from view. Despite Simmons’s sharp stare and Aunt Verity’s presence, Caroline had managed to sneak in to see Marco on more than one occasion. His servant had been faintly irked by her visits, but Marco had laughed and had even stolen a very passionate kiss.
He’d been playful, and she’d loved it, even when he’d refused to let her see the fireplace until it was finished. She hadn’t pressed him; she’d seen his work as it had progressed, and had a very good idea of how it would look, anyway.
She set the mace head on her dresser where it couldn’t channel the moonlight, and then turned to go back to bed. But as she passed by the window, something outside caught her eye.
Another light, this one small, almost tiny.
Unlike the moonstone, this light didn’t sit quietly, but swooped and hopped, and then twinkled as it danced across the lawn.
Bewitched, Charlotte leaned closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass as she watched the light flicker in and out of sight, moving toward the woods. That’s the oddest thing. If it wasn’t so cold outside, I would go and see –
The light swooped toward the woods where a bridal path disappeared beside an old oak. With a final shimmer, it disappeared from sight.
Charlotte stared at the path, her mind suddenly racing.
It was night time.
A strange light had beckoned her into the wood.
Is this what sent Caroline into Balesboro in the middle of the night?
Charlotte’s heart thudded against her collarbone. This had to be it. She reached back and touched the mark on her shoulder, the spot oddly warm under her fingers. She was the guardian now. If anyone was responsible for following mysterious lights, it was her.
She whirled from the window and hurried to her wardrobe. Moments later, she was dressed, her cloak hanging from her shoulders as she tip-toed downstairs. She needed a lamp and knew that two sat on a long marble table just outside the dining room. They were ornate affairs, but would cast a bright beam, which she’d need in the dark woods.
She made her way across the great hall, her boots muffled by the rugs, and reached the table holding the lamps. She picked up the closest and found a tinder box resting behind it. She lit the lamp and adjusted it to nice glow. She’d just turned to leave when her gaze fell on the open door to the dining hall. Ah, yes, the fireplace.
She didn’t know what impulse held her, but to her surprise she found herself walking into the dining room, her lamp held aloft. The light flickered over the fireplace, the artwork drawing the eye as surely as a moth flew toward a flame. She drew closer, admiring the impressive work. It was a thing of beauty, the marble
she’d watched chipped into submission. The crenelated mantle sat boldly over the carved header, the rope-twined decoration of the trim panels framing each side. Beyond them were the pillars Marco had struggled with, and had finally bested. Each depicted an almost naked beauty almost Charlotte’s height. Their skin glowed alabaster white as they held the mantle over their heads, their breasts thrust out as they balanced their burden.
Charlotte shook her head in awe. They were so lifelike, so real. She lifted her hand to trace the curl of the hair of the closest maiden where it rested against her rounded cheek, her strong jaw contrasting with a bold nose that—
Charlotte gasped. “That’s—I’m—" She stepped back, almost stumbling in her haste. “That’s me!” She lifted her lamp toward the other figure and gasped again as her face stared back at her from that pillar, as well. Both of the nearly nude figures were of her.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or shout or—
A flash of light sparkled outside, near the window. Muttering threats to the absent Marco, she left the fireplace to peer outside, pushing aside the heavy curtains. The strange lights had reappeared and now the entire lawn was filled with them. As she watched, they moved toward the woods, disappearing from sight, one at a time.
First thing in the morning, she’d speak to Marco about the fireplace, but for now, she had a far more pressing errand. Carrying her lamp, she left the dining room and hurried out of the Hall, closing the door quietly behind her. The cool evening air clung to her skin as she walked across the dew-spun lawn and into the darkness of Balesboro.