Into the Woods (23 page)

"I don't know you very well," Vanessa said softly, "but you have been a friend to me."

"I have?"

Vanessa flashed a charming smile. "With your beauty creams and sweet waters and oils, why I consider you to be a very special acquaintance."

Of course. All of Vanessa's friends surely provided some sort of service. "That's very sweet of you to say," Matilda said, confused.

Vanessa sighed. "More than that, you are a woman, and we ladies must stick together when times are difficult."

Matilda felt a shimmer of warning pass through her body, as if a summer storm brewed there. What on earth did Vanessa want? She surely wanted something.

"I suppose that's true."

Vanessa leaned close to Matilda and lowered her voice. "I couldn't help but notice how friendly you were with Declan Harper at last weekend's festivities."

Declan. Matilda's mouth went dry.

"He's a friend," she managed to say calmly.

Vanessa smiled coyly. Her eyes glittered, hard and unforgiving. But only for a moment.

"Men like Declan Harper don't have women friends, dear."

"You're wrong," Matilda protested weakly.

"He's rich, he's handsome, he's powerful," Vanessa continued with confidence. "Declan can have any woman he wants. Why do you think he wastes his time on a witch?"

Heat rose in Matilda's cheeks, and more than anything she wanted to turn and run home as fast as she could. "What are you trying to say?"

"I just want to warn you that if Declan is being friendly, it's likely because he expects something of you, something he could never get from a lady. Until after the wedding, of course," she added. Surprisingly, there was no anger or obvious malice in her voice. "Men have powerful physical needs," she said in a lowered voice. "I suppose they must take care of those needs in some way, but I do so hate to see a woman taken in by a man."

All her doubts and fears came rushing back. What if Vanessa was right? She shook the doubts aside. "Your... concern is kind, but..."

"Besides," Vanessa interrupted, her eyes hardening. "I've rather taken a liking to Declan Harper myself. You do know you don't have a chance if I decide I want to marry him?"

"Have you?" Matilda asked softly. "Have you decided to marry Declan?"

The smile that spread across Vanessa's face was smug and somehow sinister. "Yes, I believe I have. I haven't told him yet, of course. Why would a man ever respect a woman who falls at his feet and grovels for him? Goodness, how humiliating that would be." Vanessa glanced back to where her coachman waited for her. "I just wanted to warn you that if you've set your sights on Declan, you're going to be disappointed. Men like Declan Harper don't marry witches with braids and bare feet. They marry women they can be proud of. Like me." With that, she turned away and walked calmly to her carriage.

Something inside Matilda began to throb, to physically, sharply hurt. She pushed the ache deep, knowing in her heart that Vanessa was wrong.

But no matter how hard she tried to make it go away, the pain didn't quite disappear.

* * *

Matilda was in the big kitchen making bread when he arrived, and Declan smiled the moment he looked through the window and saw her standing there. She was oblivious to his presence, so he watched her a moment, enjoying the view.

Coming to this place at the end of the day felt so much like coming home it warmed his heart and made him forget why he'd returned to Tanglewood. Coming home to Matilda every night made everything better. It was so unexpected.

Robert was long gone. In fact, Declan had timed his arrival to come after the handyman's departure. He didn't want to damage Matilda's already tenuous reputation by making their relationship public. She deserved better.

"This place smells so good," he said as he stepped into the kitchen. Matilda stood before the brick oven, taking out a loaf of perfectly browned bread on her long spatula.

"There's nothing like the aroma of fresh-baked bread," she said, not turning to look at him.

"Actually, I was talking about you." After she set the bread down, he slipped his arms around her waist and held her tight, smelling her neck and her hair. "I missed you today."

"Did you?" She turned in his arms to face him, to look up with wide, anxious eyes.

"What's wrong?"

She hesitated before answering, as if she considered keeping whatever bothered her to herself. It didn't take her long to decide to answer his question.

"I saw Vanessa Arrington in town today." Her mouth, usually so quick to smile, worked into a small frown. "Are you still... you've never said... she's what you wanted..."

"Are you asking me if I still plan to ask Vanessa Arrington to be my wife?"

"Yes," she breathed, as if afraid to speak aloud.

He had considered, for a while, continuing with his plans: Vanessa as his wife, Matilda as his lover. The situation was not unheard of, even in this day and age. One woman for social standing and money, another for love. Kings and princes and men of great power had been doing it for hundreds of years.

But being with Matilda made him dismiss such notions. He couldn't imagine marrying a woman like Vanessa Arrington; he couldn't imagine taking another woman as his wife. Matilda had teased him, early on, about making himself King of Tanglewood. He didn't want to be king anymore.

"No," he said.

"You hesitated," she said in an accusing voice.

"I was shocked that you would ask such a question. It took me a moment to gather my wits about me after such a shock." He smiled as he said this, lifted his eyebrows in mock dismay.

He saw relief wash through Matilda's eyes. "You don't want her anymore?" she asked.

Declan shook his head. "I just want you."

When she rose up on her toes and kissed him, he could almost taste her relief. Heaven above, he did want Matilda. He held her tight and pressed his arousal against her, deepened the kiss and cupped his hands on her bottom. He could take her here and now, on the floor, against the wall, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd been so anxious to bury himself inside her that he couldn't make himself endure the long trip to her bed.

But not this time. He'd had a long day and so had she. He wanted to burrow beneath a quilt with her, in her soft bed, in the near dark, and he wanted to stay there for a while. He wanted every stitch of clothing, his and hers, discarded. He wanted to lose himself in her. It was so easy to do just that when her body came to his.

After the past week, he should be tired of Matilda; he should at least not be aroused every time she kissed him, or touched him, or smiled at him. If he truly believed she was a witch, he'd think himself enchanted.

They left her bread cooling on the long counter and headed for the house, hand in hand at first, until Declan tired of Matilda's short steps. He impatiently but tenderly swung her into his arms and she laughed. God, he loved the way she laughed.

"I made something special for you this morning," she whispered as he kicked the back door closed behind them.

"I'm not hungry."

"It's not food." She reached into the deep pocket of her apron and withdrew one of her small, green glass vials. Declan didn't slow down, but headed straight to the bedroom. "Am I supposed to drink that?"

Matilda shook her head. "No. This is one of the other recipes I found when I was looking for your love potion."

"Another perfume?" Heaven above, he didn't need anything to make him want Matilda more than he already did.

"Not exactly." She placed the vial on her bedside table, and moving slowly, without displaying the urgency they both felt, they began to undress each other. Buttons, tapes, sashes, they all cooperated and came undone easily. Matilda gave him a sweet and wicked smile, and her eyes... her eyes told him that she wanted him. That she loved him. "This ointment is for a man and a woman who are already lovers," she said as she shed the last of her clothing.

When he pulled her down to the bed, she reached out to grab her vial from the table and bring it with her as she fell into his arms. "It will make you want me more," she teased, her smile bright.

"Impossible."

"It will make you my willing love slave."

"I am already your willing love slave," he said, only slightly impatient.

Resting against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, she uncapped the vial and dribbled a single drop of the concoction onto his skin. Thick and oily, it shimmied across his chest in a thick, languid ribbon. With gentle fingertips, she worked the fragrant potion into his flesh.

"What is that, exactly?" he asked as the warmth of the oil and her fingers seeped deep beneath his skin.

"Oil of roses," she whispered, "lavender, a few of my best spices."

She raised up slowly, straddling him as she dropped a few beads of the oil onto his chest. When she offered the vial to Declan, he took it, and with both hands free she began to massage his skin, spreading the oil with the palms of her hands, with gentle fingers, her eyes on the striking picture of her pale hands against his chest.

The heat rushed through his entire body, from the places Matilda touched outward, as if a fire grew there and she stoked it. Her fingers brushed against his nipples, massaged the flesh above his heart, explored and teased and tortured.

"Well, what do you know?" he whispered. "It works. Whatever you wish, madam, it is yours. I am yours."

She grinned as her hands slipped down, over his ribs, over his sides to his hips.

He did not close his eyes to savor the intense sensation, but kept his eyes open so he could watch Matilda's face. Such wonder grew there, such tenderness and passion. The mere sight of her was a more powerful aphrodisiac than anything she could ever manufacture.

Gripping the vial tightly, he watched her, wondered at her. Matilda was a small woman, delicate, petite, and he was never so struck by that fact as he was when she touched him, when he could see her small hands against his rough flesh, when he could compare her dainty stature to his own length and breadth. Yes, she was tiny, but she was also strong. There was so much strength in her hands, in her deceptively soft body. Most of all, there was strength in her spirit.

She lowered herself slowly, kissed him as her oiled hands dipped lower to rake across his thighs, pressed against his slick chest and raked her breasts over his oiled skin. And all the while she kissed him, her hands moved against his thighs, her thumbs tender, too tender, against the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs. She shifted, moving like a cat against him, and ran the palm of one sleek hand up the length of his arousal. Slowly, firmly, and only once.

With a growl he quickly rolled Matilda over so that he towered above her. Her answer was a smile, as her eyes drifted closed and she leaned her head back, offering her neck to him. He kissed her there, lingering until she purred, then raised up and dribbled a few drops of the oil onto her chest. She was already slick, from brushing her chest against his, and the oil beaded and ran slowly down the globes of her breasts.

He stopped the progress with his fingers, and she reached out to take the green glass vial from him and place it on the bedside table.

Her flesh was soft and slick in his hands. The tantalizing odor of the oil wafted up to greet his nose, but he knew the roses and lavender and spices had little, if any, effect on his desire. It was touching her that drove him wild; it was the feel of her breasts in his hands, her flesh against his, her soft thighs opening beneath him. It was knowing that she loved him, that he loved her.

He ran his hands, so large and rough-looking against her soft, pale skin, down to her belly. His hands moved in circles, gently rubbing and dipping ever lower. Her skin flushed pink, from her face to her thighs, and her smile gradually faded. Her lips parted, her head tilted back, and he felt a deep, telling tremble with the hands that continued to massage her.

Moving slowly, he raked his slick hands down the length of her thighs, down skin so satiny and creamy pale he never ceased to be amazed. He brought those hands back up just as slowly, taking his time in arousing her before he touched her intimately and dipped his head down to take one oiled nipple into his mouth. Matilda wrapped her arms around his neck and held him tight, as she wrapped her legs around his and drew him close. He brought his mouth to hers as he guided himself inside her, moving slowly, even though he was impatient. Easily, even though she urged him not to be easy with her. He moved above and within her, her chest and legs slick against his, her lips tasting faintly of the trace of oil he had carried there from her breast.

He had never lost himself so completely, so deeply, as he did when he was with Matilda. He had never been so sure that this was his place, that this was where he belonged. It was more than physical, more than the primal impulse that brought them to this moment.

His movements quickened and so did hers. He buried himself deep, and she rose to meet him. She arched up off the bed, into him, with a soft cry and a shudder. He felt her trembling around him, squeezing him with rhythmic spasms and coming apart in his arms.

And he gave himself over to his own completion, thrusting deep inside her one more time and coming apart himself. Unraveling. Losing every part of himself, but for this joining, which was as spiritual as it was physical.

Depleted, he eased his body down to cover Matilda's. She sighed, a long, satisfied exhalation of breath, and threaded her fingers through his hair.

"I never did get to rub your back," she said, sliding a palm down his side in a languid, lazy caress. "I intended to massage every inch of your body with that oil."

"Next time," he said, his voice just as low and breathless as hers was.

"Next time," she whispered.

He moved against a sated Matilda, his glistening chest sliding against hers, as he raised his head to look down at her.

"How did I ever get along without you?"

She smiled, as if he were making a lighthearted joke, and raked an almost limp hand down his chest. "I don't know how you managed."