Emerald Ecstasy (2 page)

As she set the costumes down on a wooden trunk, she surveyed the rest of the room. Through the illumination of the candle, the blue and white settee, adorned with fluffy pillows, beckoned to her, and the Persian rugs in the same shade of blue cushioned her feet.

She felt such peace, as if a part of her had returned to the Chateau. Such a long time had passed since she had seen such beautiful furnishings. For a brief moment, she longed to recline among the myriad of pillows but knew she must hurry. Though the cast members were enjoying themselves, Victor would soon be rounding them together for travel to Belfast for the next performance.

With a little sigh, she opened one of the trunks and found her own dress and quickly divested herself of the cumbersome costume of Figaro's bride. When she reached for her own gown she heard the creaking of a chair in the far corner of the room.

Lianne turned. Her long hair swung around and covered her pale chemise in a riot of burnished copper curls. A shadowy outline of a man emerged, and she stood in stunned embarrassment, unable to move, barely able to draw breath.

He stepped into the light. The satin of his brown jacket gleamed as did the gray of his eyes. His hair was so dark that not even the soft candlelight highlighted it. He towered over her, and she was dwarfed by the broadness of his chest. As he drew nearer, she recognized him as the handsome man in the audience whose gaze never strayed from her face during the performance.

He bowed in perfect etiquette, but Lianne sensed he mocked her. The pungent odor of whiskey assailed her when he moved closer. Though he seemed steady, he slurred “Mademoiselle,” and she knew he was drunk.

“What are you doing here, monsieur? This room is for the company members only. Monsieur Flannery has allowed us its use for our costumes and belongings.”

“How magna … magnanimous of him. One can always count on Monsieur Paul Flannery to set things right.” He took a swig from a bottle of whiskey at his side and motioned for her to sit down.

“I shall stand.” Lianne held her dress closer to her, not caring for the glint in his eyes.

“As you wish. Take some fruit, whatever you wish. I had it sent for us.” He smiled.

She moved away from him as he drew nearer. He was so close that she even noticed a tiny scar on his chin. “For us? I want no food, monsieur.” Lianne felt the inclination to run, to flee before this man touched her because his eyes roamed over her like a hungry lion. “I'd like to dress and hope you will act the gentleman and leave.”

The smile he had given her moments earlier turned into an ugly scowl. He set the glass bottle down with a thud on the table next to the settee. “Games! Why must you women play games? I know what you are, mademoiselle, otherwise I'd not be here. Your note offered an invitation as did your secret looks to me during the performance. I demand to sample your offerings.”

“I don't understand, please…” Her voice trailed away as he threw off his jacket and grabbed her in one motion. His lips came down hard and furious in their assault of her mouth, and the liquor on his breath caused her to swoon against him in weakness. He growled low in his throat, mistaking her faintness for surrender, and picked her up in his arms and placed her on the settee.

Lianne's head cleared when she felt his body against hers, felt the evidence of his arousal against her thigh. Clenching her fists, she pushed at him and tossed her head aside to escape his passionate kisses. “No, please!” she cried and tried to pull her body from beneath his, but it was a futile attempt. His strength overpowered her.

His lips moved over her mouth, her cheekbone and sought the curve of her neck. “You're good, very good, mademoiselle. I believe I shall get my money's worth.”

She started to protest anew, to insist he had made a mistake; but when his hands moved aside the lace of the chemise which covered her breasts and massaged them, then laved them with his tongue, her fear dissipated and turned into a small flame deep within her. Slowly, so slowly she was barely aware of it, he slid the chemise from her until she lay naked beneath his heated gaze.

Her hair lay on the pillows like golden coins from a pirate's treasure; her lush ivory curves beckoned to him. Though she knew the situation was absurd, this man's touch had stirred her in a way she'd never felt in her whole life. Somehow she sensed he wouldn't hurt her, that the hardness in his eyes was from some horrible suffering, and she understood such pain.

He watched her for what seemed like hours, but it was no more than a few seconds before he undressed. Though the candlelight was dying and shadows predominated, his powerful physique startled her. He seemed to fill the room with his manliness, and when his fingers touched her, she felt he burned a pathway to ecstasy across her wanton flesh. Never in her life with André had she responded so wildly to love-making. This stranger seemed to know her vulnerable spots, giving her the greatest physical pleasure a man could bestow upon a woman. For the first time since before her husband's death, she felt alive. Writhing beneath his hands, his lips, she parted her legs for his entry. The flame which had started earlier with his touch grew until a raging fire consumed her.

He held her buttocks in place and pulled her closer to him. “Hold me tight,
chérie
. Love me, Love me.”

And she did. She clung to him as if he were her lifeline and she might lose him in a sea of desire. But with one final thrust, he sent her spiraling into the dark heavens and then joined her ecstasy.

She lay beneath him, panting and drained. A part of her wondered how this could have happened. He lifted his face from her breasts and looked into her eyes.
“Je t'aime, chérie. Toujours en mon coeur.”

Surprise flickered across her face that he spoke French.

She wished to say something, but words seemed so inadequate. He rolled onto his side, holding her within his arms. Before long, he slept. She watched him, memorizing the arch of his brows, the aristocratic nose, the shape of the sensual mouth. She had shared love with this man, but didn't know his name, and didn't wish to. For one passionate moment, desire and mutual need had brought them together, but now their individual pain tore them apart.

Careful not to wake him, Lianne slipped from beneath his arms. He stirred, mumbling in his sleep. She dressed and headed for the door.

Lianne stepped outside. The cool night caressed her hot flesh, and she breathed deeply. She must find Victor, flee this place and hide from her own desires. But a hand pressed firmly upon her wrist and looking up, she saw Victor staring at her in loathing. Paulette stood beside her, a victorious gleam in her eyes.

Instantly she knew they had seen her making love with the handsome stranger in the summerhouse, and she flushed so deeply that Victor commented, “Don't bother to be embarrassed now, Lianne, wife of my friend's only son. I asked for discretion and you act like a harlot the moment my back is turned. If Paulette hadn't suggested we see what was taking you so long, I'd never have known the truth about you. You have dishonored my company and me. I cannot forgive you or keep you with the troupe. I am ashamed of you, so ashamed.”

His hands shook so badly that he stuck them in the pockets of his coat, then walked away without listening to her explanation. However, Lianne said nothing. She couldn't explain away what had happened, or make Victor forget what he had seen.

Paulette leaned toward her, face glowing in malevolent delight. “Now Lianne Laguens, Comtesse de la Varre, let's see how far your title and pretty voice get you without Victor. And don't worry about who'll replace you. I will be the new soprano after this night. After all, Victor needs me to mend his broken heart and will do everything I wish.” She pranced away to catch up with her husband.

Lianne stood outside the summerhouse, unable to cry, barely able to think, but she wouldn't go inside and beg the stranger to help her. She was a survivor and would take what life offered. The pain started anew in her breast, but not for André, not for her dead child. Now she had tasted real, passionate love, something she had never truly experienced in André's arms. And it was the idea that she'd never feel it again which hurt the most.

She ran into the darkness, along the Shannon and defied the fates which conspired to destroy her.

The fates did smile kindly upon Lianne that night. Within a month she knew she carried the child of the handsome, tormented stranger.

“The bear's not moving,” whispered the small, blond boy with large brown eyes. “I wish he'd wake up. He promised to sketch Mitzie.”

“Shh, Douglas,” the boy's sister warned. “Momma said we should leave Uncle Daniel alone. We're not supposed to be in the summerhouse. And Uncle Daniel isn't a bear.”

Douglas looked at Kathleen who was as dark-haired as he was light, and different from him in every way. He shrugged. “He's as grumpy as one when he first wakes up.”

Kathleen knew this to be true. Sometimes their uncle was out of sorts, but he was always kind and gentle with them. Many times he'd prop them beside him on one of their beds in the nursery and do quick sketches of them. Kathleen wanted a drawing of Mitzie, their dachshund, who was as much of a child as they were and just as spoiled, but she would never wake her uncle for such a triviality. Douglas, however, thought nothing of taking a goose feather from the pocket of his breeches as he was doing now, and gently passing it across the tip of his uncle's finely shaped nose.

“Maybe he's dead,” Douglas wondered aloud in his nonchalant way.

“Let's leave before he wakes up, Douggie. I don't want Uncle Daniel to be mad at us.”

The large violet eyes in her heart-shaped face rested for a second on the handsome countenance of her uncle. At that moment he looked quite disheveled as he lay sprawled on the sofa with a quilt thrown across him. His broad, fur-pelted chest and muscular arms were uncovered, and a thin shadow of a new morning's hair growth blanketed his chin. Kathleen smelled the scent of whiskey in the room and associated this aroma with her uncle. More than once, she'd mentioned this to her father, and her father said that Uncle Daniel needed it for medicinal purposes. Though she was six years of age, as was Douglas who was her twin, and quite intelligent for her years, she thought that Uncle Daniel must be very sick to always require so much whiskey. Yet she loved him, and when his deep voice boomed in the tiny summerhouse, she startled.

“I'm not dead, but if I were, I'm certain that two nameless scamps would soon resurrect me.”

“The bear's coming to life!” squealed Douglas.

Daniel opened one eye, then the other one, and he slid into a sitting position. “My head,” he groaned and put his hands to his forehead.

“Feeling ill?” came the twins' mother's voice from the open doorway of the summerhouse. Allison Flannery walked lithely into the room. Though she was six months pregnant, she looked extremely lovely to Daniel's red-streaked eyes. She wore a simple morning dress of mauve taffeta with white ruching at the neckline and matching lace at the elbow-length sleeves.

“You can well imagine how I feel this morning.”

“Children, run to the house. Nanny is ready to wash you before lunch.” Her command was directed to the twins, but her blue-eyed gaze rested sternly upon her brother-in-law who looked as awful as he probably felt. But she decided to feel no mercy for him. Not today.

Though Douglas pleaded and cajoled, he didn't throw his customary temper tantrum. Kathleen followed dutifully behind him, and when they were outside Daniel watched them from the window as they scampered to the house. He smiled despite his headache, but his good humor wasn't returned by Allison. “You and Paul have two hooligans,” he commented with a half grin.

“Well, if that's the case, they don't take after my side of the family.”

“You mean they have that wild Flannery blood in them. Douglas does, that's for sure. He's the image of my father. Kathleen resembles her grandmother Dera in looks and temperament. Perhaps she'll always be calm and serious like her. But gentle as her mother?”

Allison sighed her impatience. “Don't try to wheedle yourself into my good graces, Daniel. Not after last night.” She picked up an empty whiskey bottle, her eyes flashing to the table set for two. “Do you remember anything about last night?”

Without self-consciousness he pulled the edges of the blanket about him when it fell to reveal a powerfully built thigh. “What did I do? Ravish you? That isn't a bad idea.”

Though he said this jokingly, that is what he had always wished. He had loved Allison, but the relationship had changed when he realized how much in love she was with his brother, Paul.

He was smart enough to know that she had turned to him years ago out of loneliness, but Paul would always have her heart. He envied his brother the beautiful Allison, the healthy children, and their love. The memory of the kisses they had exchanged in Dublin when she left Paul and ran away with him, stirred something deep within his soul. However, now as he looked at her, and saw the gentle softening of her features, even the tiny smile playing unwittingly about her mouth, he knew he wasn't in love with her. That passion was transformed into a caring, considerate relationship over the years. Allison had never desired him, but still he'd always love her in his way. Seeing her pale beauty brought the image of Amelie to his mind. He didn't wish to think about his wife at the moment or, for that matter, ever again—if he could help it.