Bewitched by His Kiss (May Day Mischief) (5 page)

“No,” she whispered, but she didn’t stop kissing him.

“Yes,” he said once more. He palmed her breasts through the bodice of her gown. As before, she wore no stays. Nothing hindered his roving hands as they raised her skirts.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed now, kissing him with feverish wildness. “Oh,
yes
.” She tugged his shirt out of his breeches and ran her fingers up his chest and around to caress his back with tiny sighs of pleasure. Finally, he thought, she understood. Finally she believed.

The wood parted, opening a mossy glade before him. If he’d had any doubts of the rightness of this moment, they fled before such potent magic. In one swift motion, he pulled her gown over her head. Moonlight poured into the glade, illuminating the pale, glowing mounds of her breasts, the lush curves of her belly and hips. David drank in the sight of her, tore off his clothes and pulled her to him again with a groan.

* * *

Lucasta didn’t believe. She couldn’t, but she’d let herself consider giving in to him, and now she had lost the last shreds of reason, the last iota of will to resist. This wasn’t magic, merely naked lust in the moonlight. She wanted it more than anything, wanted him more than reason and common sense. She thrust away all hesitation and doubt and drowned herself in his heat and his scent, his musk and the power of his hands and lips. She clung and tried to climb him, mewled like a cat, kissed and clawed at him in desperation to get closer, to partake of him fully. He lowered her to the forest floor, as soft and mossy, as welcoming as any bed. Where were they? She’d never felt a forest floor like this before.

Oh, what did it matter?

No, it did matter, and she knew it, but she couldn’t let that stop her, couldn’t turn back now. They lay face-to-face, kissing again, deep, reckless kisses, hiding nothing, holding nothing back, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more and wanted it now. She flung a leg over him and rubbed her core against him, wet and hot and so ready for him. “Hurry,” she whispered. “Hurry,
please
.”

He growled and rolled her onto her back, thrusting a knee between her legs. His member brushed her entrance, teased her sweet spot, but again it wasn’t enough. She reached for his member and ran it up and down her slick opening, panting for him. “Come to me
now
.”

“Now,” he said, pushing inside her, “and forever.”

She should say “no, not forever.” She should push him away, but his heat and his touch and the intimacy of their coupling overwhelmed her. She thrust herself at him, forgetting everything but the relief of opening herself to him, the searing pleasure of every stroke, the relentless mounting desire, the fire rippling to her fingers and toes, the shattering as she let go at last, convulsing in helpless abandon.

* * *

He rested on his elbows, giving her room to breathe. She lay under him, eyes closed, lips parted. God, how he loved her.

Tears welled from beneath her eyelids, glistening in the moonlight. She shuddered. His heart plummeted. He knew without asking that they were not tears of joy.

“Let me up,” she said, and he rolled away. Silently, he watched as she pulled her gown over her head and slid her feet into her shoes. It was all he could do not to weep, as well.

Finally, he regained his voice. “What’s wrong, dear heart?”

She shook her head. “Thank you,” she said, low and subdued. “That was a—a most pleasurable experience, and I shall always be grateful.”

Grateful? He didn’t give a damn about gratitude. “For God’s sake, Lucasta, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I shouldn’t have done this. I wanted it, yes, but one shouldn’t always give in to one’s desires.” She shook her head, looking about her for the path, and there it was, illuminated by the cold, pale moon. She walked away. “Perhaps you don’t—don’t understand, being a rake. It’s in your nature to give in to your urges, but it’s not in mine.”

“Is that what this is about? I assure you, my reputation has been exaggerated.” This might drive her farther away, but stubbornly he stuck to the truth. “I have—I have a different kind of blood in my veins—fairy blood. It makes most women unduly attracted to me. I used to take full advantage of it, but I haven’t been able to...not since I met you.”

She shrugged, as if she didn’t believe him or perhaps just didn’t care. “Seducing your friend’s betrothed seems like the work of a rake.”

“You gave in to me willingly. That’s not the work of a faithful fiancée.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “I know, but I thought... It doesn’t matter what I thought. It’s done, and we can’t undo it. The best we can hope for is to forget it.”

Fury tinged with despair simmered inside him. “What if you’re carrying my child?”

“I won’t foist it on Alexis, if that’s what you are asking,” she said. “I would never do such a thing. You needn’t worry. I’ll manage somehow.”

“Lucasta, in the name of all that’s holy—”

“No,” she said, a note of absolute finality in her voice. “I’m very sorry if I misled you into believing that I...cherished tender feelings toward you, but there’s nothing to be done about that, either. It will be best if we don’t speak privately again. Thank you, and good night.”

* * *

She felt his eyes on her as she walked away through the wood, but he didn’t follow, for which she was thankful. If he’d pursued her, she might have given in again, but everything about this strange liaison was wrong for both of them. He still insisted on magic, and she didn’t believe any of it. She couldn’t.

She drew in a breath and resolved to be practical. There were herbs that could halt a pregnancy. She strode through the orchard, determined to take what steps she could.

The instant she reached the herb garden, the moon disappeared behind a cloud. Cursing this mischance, she poked about the garden by memory and touch, plucking a stem here, leaves there, stowing them in her pocket and muttering to herself, “This is the only way,” over and over again. Her head began to pound.

Voices startled her into silence. She stared in the direction of the orchard. Peony and Alexis? Or Peony and Elderwood, perhaps. Since they both believed in magic, they probably had plenty to talk about. She shrugged off these strange, bitter feelings and broke off a couple of twigs of rosemary, which would do nothing for an unwanted pregnancy but might help the headache.

A minute later, Peony came through the gate from the orchard and shut it with a clang. The moon appeared from behind a cloud, and Lucasta saw that she’d done reasonably well choosing herbs in the dark. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“Myself,” Peony said. “Just as you were doing.”

Lucasta didn’t believe that for a minute. “I always talk to myself. You never do.”

“How do you know?” Peony demanded, obviously in one of her stubborn moods. “I do it when I’m alone, which I thought I was.”

Lucasta wrinkled her nose but turned away to find the mint while the moonlight lasted. “Have you been rolling in the dew again?”

“No, what would be the use of that? It’s the wrong night.”

Lucasta smothered a huff. She was beginning to feel assaulted by magic from all sides. “It didn’t even work on the right night. So why were you out here?” Not that she cared, and when Peony babbled some nonsense about how she liked it outdoors at night, she didn’t bother to challenge her. “Take these, would you?” She handed Peony the rosemary and plucked a few sprigs of mint.

“Why are you gathering herbs at this time of night?” asked Peony.

“To rid myself of a headache,” Lucasta said, wishing a tisane could cure what truly ailed her, knowing it couldn’t. This misery might pursue her for the rest of her life. Even if she wasn’t with child, she might never shake the regret about what she’d done tonight.

Suddenly unwilling to be alone, she asked Peony to come to the kitchen and keep her company. Almost immediately she regretted that, as well. Why must Peony be in such an inquisitive mood? First she asked why Lucasta was making two tisanes, forcing her into another half truth. “Women’s troubles.” She apologized for her grumpiness, but what she really meant was that she wished she needn’t lie.

Peony led the way upstairs, opening the bedchamber door for her. Lucasta set the tray down and turned to say good-night.

“Wait,” Peony said. “Are you—are you ever going to marry Sir Alexis?”

Oh, dear. Lucasta tried to fend her off with “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been wondering why you keep postponing it. If he’s such a kind and thoughtful man, he wouldn’t prevent you from writing your folklore book even after you were married...would he?”

“Probably not,” Lucasta said, adding bitterly, “but you never know what a man will do once he has the upper hand.” No, she didn’t mean that, certainly not about Alexis, and not...not really about Lord Elderwood, either. Her head throbbed unbearably. She didn’t know what she thought.

“When I saw you and Sir Alexis together,” Peony said, “I found it hard to believe that you love him...that way.”

Lucasta forced a cynical laugh. “That’s why I’ve never asked him here. It was easy to remain properly formal in London, but here someone was sure to realize. He’s a dear friend, but marry him—no. I shall never marry. I’ll be happier that way.”

Peony’s reproachful gaze made her stumble into further speech.

“Are you worried about how he will feel?” said Lucasta. “You needn’t be. Alexis is just like me. He doesn’t want to marry. Our engagement is an arrangement for our mutual convenience, to keep matchmaking busybodies at bay.”

There. She’d told the truth, and she could trust Peony not to betray her. At least she’d done one thing right tonight.

* * *

David wanted to drown himself in Blue Ruin, but since that was impossible, he settled for a stiff jolt of brandy from the flask he always carried with him. He doubted it would help him sleep.

He wished his mother were alive. She had understood him and his unique blood as no one else could. Not only that, she’d told him, in stories and songs and just plain advice, everything she knew about love—the force, as she put it, which held the universe together.

One of her warnings arose in his mind:
Every
gift
,
whether
of
fairy
or
human
blood
,
brings
with
it
the
dangers
of
arrogance
. Was that where he’d gone wrong? Damn it, he’d tried to show Lucasta how much he valued her intelligence and persistence, that he saw her as a partner, not an inferior. Shouldn’t that be enough to prove that he loved her?

Perhaps his arrogance had been far more basic—in assuming that because he knew with his entire being that this was love, Lucasta must do so, too. And yet, how could she not? Love should override every other emotion...shouldn’t it?

“Elderwood?” A soft knock sounded on his bedchamber door.

That was Alexis’s voice. David opened the door a couple of inches, wary at his friend’s serious face. “What do you want?”

“A few words,” Alexis said. “In private.” With a look of utter disgust, he added, “Christ, David, do you have a woman in there? Can’t you keep it in your breeches for two nights in a row?”

Biting back the urge to insult his friend, floor him with a right hook and then shoot him dead, he drawled, “Only when I choose to.” If he didn’t get rid of Alexis now, he might lose the remnants of his control. “I’m tired. We can talk later.”

“This is important. It won’t take long, and you’re certain to be
vastly
interested. It’s about magic.”

“You wish to discuss magic?” Fine, as long as the conversations didn’t touch on Lucasta—and if magic was involved, it wouldn’t—David would put up with it. It might even distract him from his misery for a minute or two. He opened the door wide. “My dear fellow, what has come over you?”

Alexis stalked into the room and rounded on him. “Is there a custom—a folk custom, I suppose you’d say—where a woman rolls naked in a meadow?”

“Rolling in the dew? Yes, on May Day morning, to call her true love to her side. Why do you ask?”

Alexis didn’t answer. Baffled now, Elderwood probed. Not many women risked that particular ritual these days—only those who believed in such magic. “Can it be...that you came upon a woman doing exactly that yesterday morning?”

Again, Alexis said nothing.

“You did! Do you mean to tell me who, or should I annoy you by guessing?” He was almost certain of the answer, but for his own pitiful sake, he said, “Somehow, I can’t see Miss Barnes indulging in anything remotely connected with magic.”

“Lucasta? No, of course not.”

Elderwood laughed with relief. “Then who was she? You may count on my discretion. I’m much better at keeping secrets than at controlling my wayward cock.”

“This isn’t my secret to tell. I merely want to know how the custom works.”

Noble of him to keep Miss Whistleby’s improper little secret. Who, he wondered, was the lover for whom she’d undressed the previous night? “Why not ask Miss Barnes? No need, however. I know what she’ll say—that it was an attempt to lure young men into the meadow. If one was caught, he had no choice but to marry the girl.”

“Caught by whom?”

“By the parents and villagers—the folk round about.”

“But you disagree,” Alexis said.

“I’m sure in some instances it was exactly as Miss Barnes will tell you,” Elderwood said. “In other circumstances, though—if the woman truly believes in the custom, if the man is unknown and unexpected—magic might easily be at work.” Perhaps Lucasta’s disbelief was the problem. Perhaps she’d merely succumbed to his fairy charm, and he’d been deluding himself for three years. “One never knows for sure.”

Alexis sighed. “Is there a countercharm of sorts? A method of undoing the, er, magic?”

“I doubt it,” Elderwood said. “Love is the most powerful magic in existence. Why would someone who called upon it want to counteract it?”

“Many reasons,” Alexis said. “Disinclination, disappointment, nobility of character... I daresay there are others.”