The Lion's Daughter (49 page)

He
trailed his hands up her bare legs, drawing her muslin frock up over
her knees. He kissed each knee. Her scent swam in his head. His
fingers tightened on her thighs. He looked up into eyes dark as the
forest depths. Watchful. Waiting.

Varian
shivered. His trembling hands moved swiftly to the fastenings at her
back. Then he took his time again, letting his fingers trail along
her creamy skin while he eased the frock down to her waist and past
her hips until it sank to the floor.

She
wore a gossamer-thin chemise, embroidered in a lacy pattern of
twining rosebuds. The rosy peaks of her firm breasts were already
hard, trembling against the fragile fabric. His breathing grew
labored.

His
fingers stiff with the effort
not
to
hurry, Varian slowly removed the pins from her hair. Rippling over
his fingers, the loosened tresses tumbled to her shoulders. “Garnet
and pearls,” he murmured. His voice seemed to come through a
fog. “How I've missed looking at you. And touching you.”

“I
have not missed you so much.” Her voice, too, was muffled. “I
have been very busy.”

Varian
watched the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. “Liar.”

“Tsk.”
But her eyes told more even than her quickened breathing. Longing
shimmered in their green depths, making his heart ache.

He
wanted to throw her down and have her there and then, that instant,
and let anguish burn up in the savage fury of passion.

Instead,
he stood and, his gaze locked with hers, pulled off his clothes. Her
darkening glance slid the length of his lean torso, pausing for one
dazed instant where his desire was so blatantly evident.

“As
you observe,” he said hoarsely, “your husband is prepared
to do his duty.”

A
small, choked sound escaped her.

Varian
silenced it with a kiss, quick and hungry. Then he drew the chemise
up over her head and impatiently tossed the flimsy garment aside.

“
Eager
to do his duty,” he amended.
He nudged her, and Esme inched back upon the bed. Kneeling between
her legs, he bent over her and took her mouth in a deep, fierce kiss
that drove her down onto the mattress. He drew away to nuzzle her
breasts. He heard her catch her breath, but she made no attempt to
hurry him or even touch him. He teased with his tongue and with his
hands. Esme simply accepted, her response a breath of a sigh.

He
lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were sleepy, unfocused, yet
he discerned the glint in them. “Esme.” “Tell me.”
“I
want
you.”

“Yes.
Want me.” Closing her eyes, she gave a throaty sigh. Varian's
hand tightened over her breast. She moved sinuously and the faintest
of smiles curved her mouth. “I want you
now,”
he said hoarsely. Slowly she slid
her hand over her sleek body until it rested at the bottom of her
belly. “No. Not yet.” He swallowed a groan. “No,
first you want to drive me insane”.

“Yes”

“Revenge.”

“
No. Yes.”

“Very
well, my lady,” he growled.

Ravaging
her mouth with needy kisses, he stroked and caressed, infusing her
with his heat. She gave him soft moans and sighs, and stirred under
his touch, but unhurriedly. Yet he felt plea
usure
vibrating within her, felt it
growing into urgency Iwhile he kissed every inch of her silken skin.
Every art he'd ever learned became part of one tormenting search to
make her fully wild as only she could be, and as he wanted. Then,
even when she reached for him at last, her strong hands dragging him
down to her, he wanted still more. Even when she was maddened fully,
sobbing and laughing at once, he wanted more. Then, as she wrapped
her hot, supple body tightly about him, his words spilled out. Not
the easy endearments of a practiced lover but harder truths: of
regret and shame and
loneliness
...
and something else. It was this
last he uttered most painfully of all, the words tearing his throat.

“I
love you, Esme.” She pulled his mouth to hers, as though to
take the words inside her

“I
love you
,”
he repeated. The sounds trembled in the
darkening room. Again and again he told her, and the words hung in
the air as he surged into her
...
and carried her to rapture ...
then spilled his love upon the ragged sheets.

Chapter
28

ESME
LAY IN HER HUSBAND'S ARMS, LISTENING while his breathing slowed. She
felt the tension growing between them even as their bodies quieted.

The
words he'd uttered had made her drunk with happiness. Now she
understood she'd heard only the madness of passion. She tried to
persuade herself passion was enough; it was a miracle he still wanted
her, this man for whom desire was but the whim of a moment.

Even
if she wasn't a whim, she must represent an aberration. She was
without beauty, grace, or lover's skill. Coming of a race he viewed
as savage, she had brought into his life everything he most disliked
and avoided: hardship, confrontation, violence.

He'd
stumbled into wedding her only because lust had wiped out reason. In
these last two months away from her, though, he'd surely had second
thoughts. While she was his wife, like it or not, she need not be the
mother of his children. He'd not pollute the noble blood of the St.
Georges with that of a foul-tempered barbarian.

When
he nuzzled her shoulder, she tensed.

Varian
raised his head to look at her.
She fixed her gaze upon the ceiling. “Esme.” “Go to
sleep,” she said. “You are weary.”

“You're
upset.” He sighed. “I'd hoped you wouldn't notice, That
was stupid of me, wasn't it?” “I have no idea what you
are talking about. Go to sleep, Varian.”

“No.
We'll discuss it, as we should have done long ago if I'd posessed a
grain of forethought. But I didn't.” Wrapping his arms about
her, he pulled her round to face him, “I've two younger
brothers to carry on the line,” he said. “I'd always
assumed they would, for obvious reasons. You're not obliged to give
me an heir, Esme.” “I understand. You do not want
children.”

“It
isn't that. Our situation is difficult enough
—
nigh
impossible, in fact.” Bitterness edged his voice. “In
fairy tales, the prince and princess wed and live happily every
after. But I'm not one of those pure-hearted princes. I took your
innocence, knowing it was criminal, then wed you, which was more
criminal still. Now we're both paying. I won't make an innocent babe
pay as well.”

He
held her too tightly, and his voice betrayed too much pain. The words
he meant as reassurance only confirmed her fears. He blamed himself,
blamed desire. But it was she, its object, who'd spoiled everything
for him, made his life ugly and weary. With each passing day, his
unhappiness would erode his desire for her. In time, he'd come to
hate her for what she'd done for him
...
and she'd have no child. She'd
have no permanent remembrance of their passion, no babe conceived in
love, no child for her to love when its father turned away from her.

“I'm
sorry,” she said. “We have only this night together, and
I cause you distress.”

“It's
my own doing.” He brought her hand to his lips. His mouth w
as
warm, so gentle upon her fingers.
“I didn't want you to see this moldering ruin I live in. I
didn't want to make love to you
in this tawdry room.” “I
don't care where we make love, Varian. I do not care where I am, so
long as I am with you. Even for a short time,” she added
hastily.

“But
you care about children, very much.”

Yes,
she wanted to cry.
Your
children.

“I
am not even nineteen years old,” she made herself answer.
“There is time. Many years. It is not as though my only chance
is now, this once.” Her heart rapped sharply with anxiety.

He
smiled. “Of course not. I certainly don't wish to keep
repeating that nerve-wracking experience all the rest of my life.
You've a talent for putting good intentions to naught, my dear.
Behaving responsibly nearly killed me.”

“It
—
it
was not the most agreeable way of
—
of
ending.” Her countenance heated.

He
touched her burning face. “There are other methods, but equally
disagreeable, I'm afraid. Shall I embarrass my delicate flower with
the gruesome details?”

She
was
deeply
embarrassed, because preventing conception seemed a most unnatural
act. All the same, she was aware he was trying to distract her,
trying to be kind. “How gruesome?” she asked.

He
chuckled, and as he went on to describe sheaths made of sheep
bladders or fish skin, Esme giggled in spite of herself.

“You
tie it with a string?” she asked incredulously. “Where?
How?”

“Don't
be stupid. Where do you think?”

“It
does not sound comfortable. You must not do it, Varian. If you tie
the string too tight
—”

His
roar of laughter lightened her heart. He was made to laugh, to amuse
and be amused. Because it amused him, Esme encouraged him to tell all
he knew
—
of
the sponges women were being urged by certain radical reformers to
use, and of the various herbal concoctions some resorted to. Men
dosed themselves as well, some with honeysuckle juice or rue, others
with castor oil. There was an endless assortment of potions to be
drunk or applied.

“There
are also some benighted persons who believe violent lovemaking
prevents conception,” he said, grinning.

“They
are not logical,” she said. “How many children have
resulted from rape? How can the civilized English believe such
nonsense?”

Wishful
thinking, perhaps. Speaking of which
...”
His hand slid down her spine to
cup her bottom. “Oh, Varian, you've no need to
wish.”
“But
it's not as you want, is it,
love?” His hands moved over her so tenderly. Yet even the
gentlest of his caresses was magic, making her crave more, crave all.
“It's you I want,” she said.

She
needed him. It was more, she knew, than her body's hunger. She wanted
all that he was: the lazy charm, the careless grace and easy
laughter
...
the
sin as well, the shadows darkening his soul. He was the Devil's
gift
—
and
snare as well, for a woman. But she was glad to be so ensnared. He
taught her pleasure, and his grace touched her earthbound warrior'
s
soul, to lighten it with dreams
and delight. She wanted all he was and to be his entirely. When he
was inside her, in that long moment of joining, she could believe it
was so, eternally so. She knew she'd no right to forever. She had
this moment, though.

“Just
love me, Varian,” she whispered. “Love me beautifully, as
you do.”

NO
ONE DISTURBED them. The others, it appeared, had given up waiting and
gone to the Black Bramble without them. The house was still, and
night had long since fallen. In the darkness
,
Varian made love to his wife once more.
Afterward, unwilling to waste their precious hours together in sleep,
the
y
talked.

Esme
told him of her dancing master, her coiffeur, her dressmaker, and of
Percival, who was always by to lend moral support. While her stories
made Varian laugh, he hurt inside as well. It should have been her
husband, not her young cousin, with whom Esme practiced her dance
steps. It should have been Varian to whom she complained of hairpins
and
corsets,
and
Varian
who unraveled the baffling intricacies of English etiquette.

At
least, he consoled himself as he lay beside her, she was here to tell
him. At least he could listen in the darkness to her faintly accented
voice. He'd missed her voice, just as he'd missed the tumultuous
intensity of her presence. He would have been happy to spend the
night so, but sometime near midnight he remembered he'd kept Esme
from dinner.

He
gave her his shirt to wear, donned his trousers, and found an oil
lamp
—
for
candles were a luxury at present. In its yellow light and reeking
fumes he led her down to the kitchen. There they ransacked the
dowager's remaining travel stores, devised a meal of sorts, and
settled down by the vast empty hearth to eat. While they ate, Varian
found himself telling her of his own activities. Though the details
of patching together his ravaged estate were dreary at best,
mortifying at worst, it was better, he found, to tell her. In trying
to shelter Esme from the truth these last months, he'd only made her
feel shut out.