Willing (19 page)

“No, no. I’ll do whatever must be done. Shall I take on the lot of them then? Let them pump me in turn til you get what you need?”

Alisdair’s eyes went wide. “No! Jesus, woman. I’ll not have any of them touch you.”

“No? Why, because I’m suddenly so sacred to you? Then who were you planning to let have me, M’lord? Some rich bastard? Or Thomas? Gregory, perhaps!”

Her voice was growing shrill. She was losing her ability to pretend, and the fear and anguish she felt was flooding to the surface so quickly, she feared she’d drown them both. Gregory was close, he could hear everything, and she couldn’t protect this precious thing before her. Alisdair’s hands held her shoulders and he shook her gently, hunching down to meet her gaze. “Me, damn it! It would be me.”

Constance’s mouth fell open and she dropped into her chair like a pile of dirty laundry. Alisdair squatted down before her, touching her face, inspecting it like a physician would an ailing patient. “Constance, love. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She shook her head, listening for a sound of movement out in the hall. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Tell me you do not wish to take part and it will be done. I’ll call it off.”

She swallowed. Would they send her home alone, kill her by the Thames, leave pieces of her from here to Cornwall as Gregory threatened? Then who would protect Alisdair? He was surrounded by wolves, and he didn’t know he was the lamb. The ritual would take place tonight, whether with her as his altar, or Alisdair as theirs. She turned her eyes away, staring at the open books on the table. Two words caught her eye in the older text, the name of the ritual in scribbled Latin at the top of the page - Latin words she knew from her former life, a childhood spent in churches, around old bibles; corners of memory long forgotten, waiting til now to return.

Deo Invictus.

Invincible, unbeaten God. A ritual to become a living god. He’d said it before, and she’d seen what he could do, why had she not thought of it sooner? If he succeeds, what harm could they inflict on a man who can move the world with his mind? The ballroom doors opened down the hall, betraying the bustling sounds of the ready circle. It was time.

“We have to get it right, Alisdair.”

His brow furrowed. He could see plainly that she was ailing, and the helplessness he felt read on his face. “I fear you do not want to. That will not bode well for the ritual.”

Constance looked up at him. “No. I want to. We have to.”

He shook his head. “Constance, if you are not well, I can’t imagine we will succeed -”

“These rituals are fueled by how open I am to you, yes? To whatever God it is you summon. Believe me, I have never been more open to you having the power of some God than I am right now.”

He stared at her as Thomas appeared in the doorway.

“I promise you, I will give you everything I have. You can have all of me, Alisdair, but we have to do it tonight.”

Alisdair slumped into his chair, watching her face. He took a deep breath and nodded. “I know something is wrong, Constance, but if you’re sure -”

“I am.”

He nodded and rose from his seat, staring down at the open books. He chuckled softly to himself. Constance watched him for a moment. He glanced at her, forcing a smile. “Not exactly how I imagined our first time.”

Her throat grew tight and she looked away, willing him blind to the pained expression on her face. She held her breath a moment, then forced a smile. “I’m sure it will be magical.”

Alisdair exhaled sharply out his nose, a sign of quiet laughter. Then he turned to the doorway, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll go ready myself. See you shortly, then?”

Constance nodded. Alisdair stopped in the doorway, glancing back at her. “Go easy on me, alright? It’s been a long time.”

He winked, trying to lighten the mood. Her heart swelled to see him smile, then he was gone down the hall.

“Will you come with me, Mum?”

She looked up to Thomas’ gentle face, and nodded. She felt like a condemned man, making the final walk to the gallows. Thomas led her to the ballroom doors, checking with Gregory before he hustled past, entering the ballroom from another doorway. She stood there in wait, the soft rhythm of Gregory’s breathing her only company.

“You’ve done rather well, tonight.”

“Don’t speak to me, please.”

Gregory chuckled. “I will keep my promise. He won’t suffer.”

“No, but I pray to God, you do.”

“What God is that, exactly?”

With that, the ballroom doors opened, casting the familiar golden glow across their faces. She turned to face the ballroom, the hundreds of candles burning in all directions, lighting the masked faces of the figures within. They all turned to watch her enter, each holding candles, casting strange shadows over their masks, keeping their eyes from view. Constance walked through the circle with Gregory on her heels, making a point to meet the gaze of each figure, burning their faces into memory, cursing them one by one for what they were about to do. She climbed the steps at the head of the ballroom, and took her place by the altar.

The doors opened behind her and she could feel him approach. Alisdair stopped at her side, his face unmasked, wearing a robe similar to her own. The smooth contours of his body were framed by the gauzy fabric. He was as bare as she was underneath, and from the sheepish gaze of his eyes, he was shy about that fact. She warmed to the sight, wishing this almost virginal moment could have been shared when they were alone, when they weren’t in danger.

He smiled at her, oblivious to the threat around him. Constance met his dark, beseeching eyes, and despite the tension in her chest, couldn’t help but smile back. He was more beautiful then than she’d ever seen him.

He leaned into her, whispering. “Christ, how do you do this?”

She didn’t speak.

Thomas appeared at her side, holding the familiar chalice and the athame, glinting in the candlelight as the circle began their incantations. The room began to hum in that strange way, as though the voices danced off the walls and high ceilings. Thomas handed the knife to Alisdair, who spoke softly, joining the circle with his own chant. He pressed the tip of the blade to his finger, wincing as blood appeared there. He then handed the knife to her.

Constance felt the heft of it in her hand, considering its weight, the distance between her and Gregory. She’d never harmed a living soul in her life, never so much as slapped a man, but at that moment, she fantasized driving the shiny weapon into Gregory’s neck and watching that mad expression go blank. She glanced around, scanning over the masked faces. Gregory was several yards away, keeping post at the ballroom doors. He was watching her intently, and when their eyes met, he glanced to the knife and gave an eyebrow raise, as though daring her to do exactly as she pleased – and see what happens. Gregory wasn’t acting alone. Even if she could get to him, the circle was the real enemy, and there were thirteen of them.

“Constance?”

She jerked, turning up to meet Alisdair’s concerned look. She exhaled out her nose and jabbed the end of the knife into her middle finger. It drove deeper than she intended, pouring blood across her fingertip and into the chalice. Thomas took the knife from her, and Alisdair quickly took her hand, pressing the folds of his robe to her bleeding finger.

“It’s fine,” she said.

He pinched her finger, waited a moment, then released his hold to find her still bleeding, though slower. “Should we get you a bandage?”

Constance shook her head and began untying the sash of her robe. She dropped the garment to the floor before Thomas could return to catch it. She stood before Alisdair, bared to him completely, and waited. Thomas gathered up her robe and stood aside, waiting for Alisdair.

Alisdair swallowed, forcing a nervous chuckle as he began untying his robe. He fumbled with the sash, his hands shaking. Constance reached for him, pushing his hands aside as she untied it for him, and pulled it open. His body was long and lean, his chest peppered with dark hairs, framing the small pink circles of his nipples. Constance let her gaze drop to his hips, his thighs, and the darker flesh of his sex, half erect as he handed his robe to Thomas. Constance reached for him without thinking, letting her hand graze up the outside of his thigh, feeling the dark hairs under her fingertips, and dreaming of how she would have kissed him had she the chance to make love to him properly. His cock jumped in response to her touch, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Jesus Christ,” he said softly, taking her head in his hands as she leaned into him, kissing his chest. Her hands played at his hips, moving to his backside to pull him closer. It was clear he was not a virgin when he kissed her, the purpose of it familiar and confident, but when her hand grazed the front of his thigh, reaching for him, he recoiled just so. He glanced around the room inspecting the members of the circle as though he might scold them for watching. They continued their chant seemingly oblivious to the two of them.

Thomas returned to his post by the door, leaving them alone by the altar. Alisdair remained there with her, their bodies so close she could feel the heat of him.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Constance wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him against her. He sighed, softly. “Yes, you can. I’ll help you.”

Constance moved toward the altar and stood just beside it, turning to Alisdair. She patted a hand on the cold stone surface, coaxing him to climb onto it. She shot Gregory a sideways glance – he was still at his post, seemingly innocent in his service.

Alisdair blew through pursed lips and stepped forward, lifting his backside onto the stone altar. He gave a soft hiss at the temperature, shooting her a silly expression, but she simply hopped up beside him, and pushed him down onto his back. He was shaking. Constance straddled over him, running her fingertips over his chest as she lowered herself onto him, pinning his erection between them. She let her finger graze over his collar bone and spotted a tiny streak of her own blood across his pale skin. He swallowed, reaching down to take hold of her hips. She lowered her lips to his, kissed him, and stroked his hair back.

“If we were alone, I would ravish you right now.”

If we were alone, I would tell you to run, she thought, wishing to God he could read her mind. He squeezed her hips, moving her on him as his own hips moved beneath her. He closed his eyes, a soft groan rumbling deep in his throat. Constance lowered herself onto him, pressing her breasts to his chest. He was warm, his skin smooth and smelling of honey and his hair of pomade and wood smoke. He shot a wary look around the room, and Constance pulled his face back to her. If this was to be the last moments she shared with him, she wanted to be all he could see.

Constance glared at him. “An audience shouldn’t deter you.”

He smirked at her, wrapped an arm around her waist, and flipped over with her in his arms, pressing her down onto the stone surface. He lifted her arms over her head, pinning them there. He kissed her deeply, moving his lips down over her collar, then her breasts, kissing each one in turn. He moved between her legs, working to aim his erection, but slipping aside with each attempt. The chanting in the room continued at its monotonous tone, becoming scenery as much as sound. Constance worked to drown it out, to watch this man over her. He was the last beautiful thing she would ever see, and the only hope she had of helping him now, was to give him exactly what he wanted. Give him her whole self; her desire, her longing, her hopes and affection, and pray that in pouring it all into him it would be enough.

“Are you ready for me?”

She nodded, taking her hands from his to touch his face, leaving a tiny pin prick of red on his cheek from her wounded finger.

He shifted his weight over her, reached down between her legs, and took hold of his cock. Then he watched her face intently as he pressed himself between her legs, and her body yielded to him. He slid inside, drawing a gasp from them both as he pushed as deeply as he could. He closed his eyes, humming with approval before retreating just so, and thrusting into her again, to the hilt this time. She stifled a cry at the sensation, then met his gaze as he bent over her, his lips close to her ear.

“Bloody hell, Constance. You feel like heaven.”

Constance slid her fingers into his hair, inhaling him as he began to move in her. His rhythm was slow and deliberate, letting his full weight press her into the stone. He moved with her, driving himself inside as he rocked them both. Constance reached for his backside, clutching her fingernails into the smooth skin, pulling him deeper. She fought to ignore the droning sound of chant around them, to lose herself in Alisdair’s soft hums and groans. He met her eyes, holding her gaze as he took her, smiling at her cries, and glaring with intent. She pulled him deeper, wrapping her legs around him as she scratched her nails down his back. No man had ever before felt like this.

His eyes closed and his chest shook. “My god, I’m not going to last, love.”

“No, no! Not yet.”

“It’s not my fault. Christ, you feel so good.”

His breathing grew sharper, a tell-tale sign of a man in the near throes of passion.

Don’t stop, she thought. Don’t let it end yet. She wasn’t ready to let him go, wasn’t ready for this last moment of closeness to be over. Once it was done, the circle would turn on him, and he would be lost to her. Hold on, she thought. Just for a little while.