The Perfect Bride (32 page)

***

"This
will be heaven, Mortimer."

"Hush,
Isabella! Do not say that word."

"Pah!
We are beyond reach now."

"The
last time I thought myself beyond the reach of justice, I was snatched from
your arms and marched naked to Tyburn."

"You
cannot blame me for that! Who would have imagined that my treacherous son would
have his guards invade his mother's bedchamber?"

"The
point, dearest Isabella, is that one can never be too sure that one has escaped
retribution for one's deeds."

"I
weary of your lectures, Mortimer. Edward is nowhere to be seen, and our tenant
is mere minutes away from savoring carnal delight with the chaperon. The time
is ripe to inhabit their human shells."

"May
I remind you that you never liked caves, dear?"

"Five
hundred years is a long time, Mortimer. I am willing to risk a bit of damp
discomfort in exchange for sampling the joys of the flesh once more with
you."

"Are
you sure you know how to go about inhabiting a human?”

"How
difficult can it be?"

"Something
tells me that our tenant and the chaperon are not ordinary humans."

"Well,
we are not ordinary ghosts — are we?"

"There
has never been anything ordinary about you, dearest."

"Thank
you, Mortimer. Shall we join them now? Oh, I made a little pun. How
clever!"

"Wit
was never your strong suit, Isabella."

"There
is no need to be insulting. Mind your tongue, Mortimer."

"If
I had such an appendage, you can be sure I would guard it well."

"That
is all about to change."

"If
you say so, dearest."

***

Their
lips met gently at first. The kiss catapulted Amanda back to that cliff with
Mr. Thornton, when the sun’s warmth and the salty sea spray had awakened her
senses as if for the very first time.

There
was no sun now, but an escalating heat took its place. This time there was no
doubt that it was Lord Sommersby who kissed her — without pretense, or artifice,
or illusion.

His
arms, a warrior's arms, slid around her. Strong and solid, they held her
captive as his mouth imprisoned hers. Amid the heady magic of his kiss, Amanda
had only one coherent thought: She belonged here, within these arms. She did
not want the moment to end.

But
suddenly he released her. His arms fell away and he took a step backward. His
breathing was uneven — like her own. He did not speak, and she saw that his
face had once more become an impassive mask.

Or
was it? His eyes had gone deep green. Their warmth owed nothing to the
lantern’s glow.

"My
lord," Amanda said in a shaky voice, her every nerve on end, "I
confess I have no desire for small talk."

"Nor
I." The words came out a growl. The fire in him, she saw, did not wish to
be restrained. It reminded her that he was above all a man of war, capable of force,
accustomed to combat.

Amanda
realized that she had yearned to see that warrior again ever since that night
in Felicity's room, when he appeared on the balcony half-naked with blazing red
hair and armed with an ancient battle sword. Shameless though it might be, longing
trembled in her very bones.

What
Julian LeFevre had dimly awakened in her so long ago was as nothing to the shocking
craving she felt for this man. Despite her proper spinster's habits that
shunned every untidy passion, Amanda knew she did not care what happened beyond
this night — even if it meant she lived the rest of her life in scandal. She wanted
the man whose strong arms had enfolded her and whose churning green eyes now
held hers.

The
cave was so very quiet. And dark. They had extinguished the candles along the
length of the tunnel to preserve them for another escape attempt after the tide
receded. The lantern illuminated much of the chamber, but beyond its light lay
unfathomable darkness. It cocooned them, wrapped them in a world where there
was only this raw awareness between them, and the pounding of their hearts.

And
still he held himself apart.

He
was waiting, she realized, for her to determine their course. Even in passion,
he was a model of restraint.

"Are
you always so honorable, my lord?" she asked.

His
gaze narrowed, but he remained silent. His hands were balled tightly at his
sides.

Amanda
gave an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose you do not intend to force yourself on me
after all."

A
scowl swept his features. "I would be less than a gentleman if —"

"And
you are always a gentleman."

His
gaze narrowed.

“I
must tell you something frankly, my lord,” she said. “If it lowers your opinion
of me, I cannot help that."

Now
his expression grew stoical. "I would not dream of stifling your frankness,
Miss Fitzhugh."

“Surely
we must be at ‘Amanda’ by now.”

When
he did not respond, she took a deep breath. "I do not wish you to be a
gentleman, my lord. Indeed, I fervently wish otherwise."

His
brows arched skyward.

"I
do not wish you to exercise those honorable qualities that have no doubt guided
you all of your days." Amanda took a step toward him. "In short, sir,”
she said softly, “I very much wish to be ravished."

His
sudden cough took her aback.

"I
know you have it in you," she added. "I would go to my grave swearing
that there is a beast in you that struggles to be free."

"A
beast
?" He looked appalled.

"Restraint
is a good thing," she said. "The world would be chaos without it. But
love demands that restraint be cast aside."

Amanda
rushed on, before he could deny the feeling she had so rashly named. “Such
emotions are doubtless foreign to your temperament. As they are — have been —
to mine. But perhaps you can learn. Perhaps you can even consider whether
Felicity was correct about us. I will never force you into marriage as a result
of this night, my lord, but I shall ask you to ponder those things."

He
exhaled a ragged breath.

Amanda
waited.

“I
have found the heart a poor guide,” he said at last. “A dispassionate outlook,
careful planning, methodical purpose — these are necessary to keep a man
whole."

"We
are not at war, my lord," she said quietly. "Are you afraid to look
into your soul and discover there may be feeling there?"

Their
gazes held.

“And
even if there is not,” she whispered, “I confess that at this moment it does
not truly matter.” She caught his hand and brought it to her lips.

“Amanda,”
he said in a ragged voice. “You do not know — ”

“No.
I do not know,” she agreed. “But I very much wish to.”

And
then, finally, he reached for her, the veneer of his discipline shattered as
his mouth claimed hers. He crushed her to him, robbing her of breath. His
earlier kisses were as nothing to this assault on her senses, and when his
mouth moved lower, nibbling at her neck, her shoulders, she reveled in the scratchiness
of his chin as it scraped against her skin, branding her. Amanda wanted his
mark on her, a trail charting his desire. Her whole being wanted more. Much
more.

His
hand slid down her back, lower still, bringing them so close Amanda felt every
intimate detail of his passion. She gasped.

“Forgive
me,” he rasped, pulling back with an effort that made his body shudder.

But
he’d misunderstood.

Amanda
pressed into him, wanting all he had to give. “Did I not say I wished to be
ravished? If you have second thoughts — ”

“God,
no.” With that, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the pallet.

"You
see, my lord?" she murmured into his ear, "sometimes chaos is quite necessary."

"Amanda,"
he commanded, "be quiet."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

An
enemy — cold, implacable, ruthless, deadly.

Unseen.

Simon's
fingers flew instinctively to his waist for the scabbard he had not worn in
months. Though he felt neither scabbard nor sabre, to his great surprise the
ancient broadsword suddenly appeared in his hand, its heavy weight no burden,
only an invincible extension of his fighting arm.

Whirling
to face his foe, he saw a hazy form dimly outlined against grey, unearthly fog.
Simon's senses, which moments ago had sung with the fire of desire, fell
strangely silent, save for the sense of smell. Along with the familiar, musty
damp of the cave was a new, fetid odor.

Oddly,
he possessed no awareness of his own body. He seemed to be as formless as the
enemy and curiously lightheaded.

Where
was Amanda? Only moments ago he had held her in his arms, lost himself in her
bottomless brown eyes and gentle strength. Now he beheld only the intruder's
obscure outline. Had this menace — whoever he was — stolen her?

"Amanda!"
he called hoarsely.

Another
voice, vaguely feminine, answered. "Oh, darling. He is magnificent! Those
muscles, that fire — do hurry!"

"Ah,
but it seems our tenant has decided to be difficult," answered a new,
strained voice.

"Oh,
come now, Mortimer. No man can best you with a sword," came a snake-like
hiss.

"Have
you told our tenant that?" was the labored reply. A split second later, a
sudden blow left Simon reeling.

Where
was Amanda? Who were these menacing spirits who struck with deadly, invisible
force?

For
a brief moment, Simon's senses came alive again. His gut felt as if a thousand
cannons had exploded in him. His head ached as if someone had pounded it with a
spike. His vision blurred, and suddenly he was propelled high above the
ground,  looking down from the cavern's vaulted ceiling at two figures —
himself and the woman who clung to him.

Amanda.

No.
Not Amanda — though she looked like Amanda.

Kissing
him — no, not him. A man who looked like him. Simon's every instinct tensed for
battle. But how did one fight the unseen foes who had invaded their forms?

Suddenly
there was another presence beside him, hovering near the ceiling, radiating the
fire of life. This spirit was distinctly feminine. Like him, she held a sword.
Raising it aloft, she radiated a regal, battle-tested strength.

Amanda.

And
then he knew that he would follow this woman into death, if need be, that life
held no meaning without her.

With
a warlike cry, Simon clutched his sword and swooped down from the ceiling onto
that foreign form that was him and not him. Amanda followed, crying out her own
declaration of war.

Never
had his strength seemed so invincible. Never had any weapon handled so
effortlessly. The clashing of swords rang through the cavern as he and his love
fought side by side with the strength of thousands of lovers before them.

When
Simon once more began to feel the ache of his own muscles and the tensing of
his own flesh, hope exploded within him.

"Amanda."

"Kiss
me, Simon," he heard her reply.

Was
it truly Amanda who spoke? He did not know, for at that moment, his foe assailed
him from behind. Simon whirled. With all the strength he possessed, he brought
the great broadsword crashing down upon his enemy.

Then
he felt Amanda's lips on his.

***

In
nature’s stone cathedral, Simon had discovered frightening forces within him.

Awed
by Amanda's bravery, humbled by her passion, he surrendered completely for the
first time in his life. His very insides shook with desire. Yet he felt
strangely disjointed, like a man who had slipped the bonds of a powerful dream.
He tried to remember the dream, but his mind gave him only a vague image of an
ancient broadsword and some forgotten battle. Had it truly been a dream?

There
was no doubt now. He was looking at Amanda. She was his.

Her
bodice fell away under his feverish hands, her skin burned under his touch. He
could not make himself go slowly. He could not control his wild passion.

As
her eyes sent him the wordless message of her heart, Simon looked into his own
heart and discovered to his amazement something there after all. And in the
moment that she gave himself to him, he wondered how he had lived this long
without allowing her to touch his soul so sweetly.