Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (27 page)

“Shh,” Oliver admonished with a smile. “I should hate to wake your mother—or disturb Amanda before she finds her way to her pillow.”

“I told you, my mother sleeps like the dead. And Amanda . . . I do not think even hell itself could keep her from her sleep now,” Bridget returned with a smile. But suddenly it felt awkward, uneasy. She had reached this point in the evening—this strangely important, transformative evening—and she didn’t know what to do now, except feel bereft at its ending.

They began to move slowly toward Bridget’s room, a few doors down the long hall, keeping a breadth of space between them. She picked at her gloves—half off since the carriage ride—until they came away, to be folded and turned over in her hands.

“I suppose you must be as tired as your sister,” Oliver offered by way of conversation.

“Quite the contrary,” Bridget replied. “I doubt I have ever felt so awake.”

He gave a strange cough. “I, too, am strangely awake.”

“I do not know what I shall do to fall asleep. Perhaps try to read some German book—there are a few in my room.”

“I know,” Oliver replied. “Books are in every guest room.”

They had reached Bridget’s door.

She turned and gave as graceful a curtsy as she could manage. “Well, good night, Oliver. Thank you for the most incredible night of my life.”

She expected him to give a quick nod, or a short bow. She thought perhaps he might raise her hand to his lips again, and kiss that spot on her wrist.

But she was wrong.

There, in the darkened corridor of a borrowed town house in Vienna, Oliver Merrick took one languid step, closing the gap between them. He stood there, hovering in her space, letting her revel in his warmth. Then he reached down and took one of her shaking hands.

When had her hands begun shaking?

“Come with me,” he whispered, his warm tenor aching with want.

“Where?” Bridget replied, her voice shaking as much as her hand, but her gaze never faltering, never wavering from his.

His other hand reached up, pushed an errant curl behind her ear, then came to rest gently at the back of her neck. Coaxing. Calming.

“Bridget,” he said again. “Come with me.”

A thousand thoughts rushed through Bridget’s mind. A thousand thousand words in reply. But after that long moment, that endless aching, Bridget finally replied with the only word that made any sense at all.

Her gloves fell to the floor as she reached out and took his hand.

“Yes.”

Taking her hand, Oliver led Bridget down the hall to another staircase, this one leading to the west wing of the house, the family rooms. He moved with speed, with purpose, but had to be gentle. He did not wish to frighten her with his need. He simply wanted to unleash hers.

They made their way to Oliver’s room—a masculine space with dark woods and heavy green velvets that he would take the time to appreciate and compliment the staff for their hard work on at a later time. Right now, all that he cared about was that there was a fire in the hearth, a bed turned down, and Bridget.

He let Bridget go once they reached the room. He let her walk around, explore the surroundings. Get her bearings. She inspected the fire in the hearth, the portrait hanging above the mantel. Then her eyes took in the large, comfortable bed that dominated the center of the room.

She could run, he realized. She could run, and he would let her go. But he knew she wouldn’t. She was too brave, too headstrong. She was after all, the girl who had come to Venice, chasing a dream from a letter.

Eons from now, after this night had passed, and a thousand like it, someone would ask him the question of how he had known Bridget Forrester for who she would be—and the answer would be simple. That she was the one person in the whole world he had ever met with who had the gall, the temerity, and the absolute directness of feeling to carry her across a continent on the vague promises in a single letter. Her determination, her talent, and above all, her trust, was something to which he aspired, and it made her shine.

But that was not the foremost thought in his mind. Right now, the only thing he could think was that Bridget was here, she was with him, and she looked very nervous.

“This is your room,” she said softly, her voice a bare squeak.

“Yes,” he intoned. “We do not have . . . that is, we have all the time—”

“Oliver, will you do something for me?” she interrupted with as much authority as she could muster.

“Anything.”

“Will you kiss me?” she asked, betraying her vulnerability. “Just to get it out of the way.”

Oliver was not one to refuse such a request. In two quick strides he crossed to the hearth where she stood and wrapped her in his arms. The kiss was deep, an inhale of the life she had and the soul she was so willing to share. She reciprocated, pressing herself into him until he could feel all of her against all of him.

And all it did was drive him crazy.

He thrust his fingers into her hair, letting loose a torrent of pins, each one hitting the soft carpet with a dulled ping. Her hair streamed down her back in a mass of dark curls—so soft!—falling to her waist. He let his fingers run down until they could play with the ends, his hands grasping her tiny middle, lifting her against him. And all the while, never ever breaking that requested kiss.

He was rewarded for his diligence, for his patience. She relaxed in his arms, all sense of nervousness gone. Indeed, as the kiss deepened, as her hair came down and she pressed herself against him, stealing his warmth, her enthusiasm grew. Then it was her hands that threaded into his hair . . . it was her hands that ran down the back of his coat. And her enthusiastic hands that reached under his coattails and plucked at his shirt, seeking the satisfaction that only skin-to-skin contact could bring.

“Wait,” he cried, breaking their kiss as her cool hands brushed against the warmer planes of his back.

“What is it?” she asked, biting her lip, unsure. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing!” he hastened to assure her, planting a kiss on that delicious lip. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“I . . . I don’t feel as if I am being rushed,” she replied, cocking up a brow. “In fact, it could go a bit faster, if you like.”

“Well, perhaps then I do not wish to rush myself. I want to enjoy this.” He leaned into her ear, whispering. “Savor it.”

He could feel through the hand on her back as a shudder of anticipation ran down her spine. He watched as her eyes turned from jade to black with desire.

Delicately, he released his hand from her waist and set her back at arm’s length. “We are going to do this slowly. Properly.”

“If we were doing this properly, it would be on our wedding night,” Bridget said glibly, and then, eyes widening in horror, slapped her hand over her mouth.

Oliver froze. Met her eyes.

“I . . . I didn’t mean that,” she said, shaking her head. “I was only trying to be funny, and it did not turn out terribly funny, did it—oh blast, now I’ve ruined everything and you won’t—”

Her nervous ramble was worthy of her sister, but Oliver reached forward and silenced her with a kiss.

“Do you want to wait until that day?” he asked hoarsely. “I will happily, if you want me to,” he grimaced, unable to lie. “Well, not precisely happily, but I shall.”

“No,” she said, kissing him back. “I do not wish to wait. But you will have to tell me what to do. I do not know this dance, you see.”

He kissed her again. Breaking the connection between them, that had been his mistake. If he just held her, her nerves could not overcome her. If he held her—she was the bravest woman imaginable.

“You know this dance,” he answered. “Or, if you don’t, at least you know the music.”

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back enough to let his arm come up between them and rest on the easy neckline of her evening gown. Running his knuckle gently against the swell of her breast, he let his lips fall against that sensitive spot just behind her ear. She gasped. He took it in.

“I do not wish to rush,” he murmured. “Nor do I wish to frighten. All I want to do is wander.”

And so he did.

He wanted to let his hand graze against her breast, so he did. She wanted to let her hand trail down to his rear and press against that strong flank, and so she did. He wanted to undo the buttons at the back of her dress, and so he did.

“Do you know how often I wanted to peek behind that screen?” he whispered, as his fingers deftly worked open one small button, then another. Her dress fell loose against her front, exposing those delicate rosy nipples through her thin chemise. “As Molly was opening up the back of your dress and putting you into my shirt? I wanted to see this piece of skin, right here.” His thumb hit the spot in the center of her back, where her chemise began. “See if it was as freckled as the rest of you.”

“You never peeked?” she asked.

To that, he only grinned against her mouth.

They began to wander again. To meander, to dilly-dally. His fingers finished with the buttons at the back of her dress, leaving her exposed, her dress hanging from the shoulders. Her fingers took up the call, and threaded themselves beneath his dress coat, pushing it off his shoulders. Putting only as much space between them as necessary for gravity to work, he let his coat fall away at the same time as her dress. Then her fingers, always languid, always following the rhythm he laid out, began to play with the buttons of his shirt, at his throat, at his chest.

Bridget let herself explore, with the curiosity borne from inexperience and delight. Her fingers trailed down the hard planes of his stomach, a contrast with his soft skin and the downy fur of a man in his prime. The firelight let her see only so much; the rest she had to imagine.

She had to feel out the notes.

Like that line, a scar under his ribs—where had that come from? And the way his muscles dipped, the way his shoulders rounded toward her smaller self, as she pushed the shirt off his skin and let it fall to the floor, next to his coat, her gown, and everything else that had come between them, pooling at their feet.

Slowly, Oliver began the dance away from the fire and toward the bed. Bridget moved with him, following his beats, his music, and making it her own.

Shoes, both his and hers, fell away as they climbed onto the bed. Careful to never break that connection, never let themselves be away from each other, not even for a second. Stockings followed, pantaloons, a chemise. Until they lay together, naked, unable to hide.

She did not yield. Did not shy away. Bridget knew, deep down, that the only way through this bit was to hold on to Oliver and not let go. So she didn’t. Instead, she let him, and that melody, that insistent melody that had infected her brain and apparently infected Beethoven’s, play in her head. It chased her, spurred her. Drove her into not letting him stop until that part of Oliver—that part of endless curiosity, that part that elders never tell young ladies about, but they manage to find out about anyway—had found its way deep inside her.

Then, and only then, did the music stop.

“Do not worry. Do not worry, my love,” he murmured, kissing her hair as he did so. “The pain will end in a minute. It will go away,” he promised.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask how he had such knowledge, but somehow, in the blinding haze of feeling, she managed to remember what had happened the last time she had answered with glibness, and held her question. She was rewarded with a rain of kisses, on her face, her cheek, her neck . . . and slowly, surely, the pain did go away.

“It is all right,” she answered finally. “After all, what is pleasure without pain?” Indeed, what was the last half of Beethoven’s symphony—the quartet of voices, the melody raised in chorus, in instruments—without the first two movements? The pain of running, or fear, gave way, adjusted, so easily to hope. Just as her body so easily adjusted to his.

“It’s all right,” she promised him, returning those reverent kisses, giving him the permission he needed. “It is all right. I can hear it again.”

He held steady, looked down at her, quizzical.

“Hear what?”

“The music,” she replied. That melody of hope, of joy, was slowly coming back to her. Oh yes, it was.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hesitant.

“When I look back on this moment”—she bit her lip, but still was resolved—“I will not see fear. I will see only you.”

And indeed, she could hear the music. The pace he set, the rhythm in three-quarter time. The delicate way they moved against each other, their own symphony playing, a mutation, a culmination of everything they had heard before.

It was touch—the plucking of strings. It was sound—the soft cries of one blending into the other. And it was sight—seeing the road before them and not faltering; in fact, welcoming the journey to come.

She let him lead their dance, but he had been right—she knew this music. This music written before time was written down.

And when they finally reached the end, those high, powerful notes, Bridget and Oliver both heard the strain of the music taking over their senses, clasping them in its racing grip and then floating away, letting them fall back to earth, with only each other to hold on to.