Lily (37 page)

His smile stayed in place, but now it was patently unnatural. “He’s recovered,” he said tonelessly.

Lily’s chin dropped to her chest; she closed her eyes and thanked God.

“But he’s lost his memory. He can’t remember who shot him.”

She jerked her head up. “I didn’t.” Still his odd, wooden smile didn’t change. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she went on, unable to stop. “I think it must have been Trayer. Do you remember? He said he would pay you back.”

“Trayer. Yes. That must have been who it was.”

But he didn’t believe it—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. “How did you find me?” she asked hopelessly.

“Simple. I opened the letter your estimable guardian had forwarded to you at Darkstone.”

“But—”

“Then I went to Lyme Regis, where dear Mrs.—Troublefield, wasn’t it? a vaguely familiar name to me—was persuaded to say where you’d gone.”

She shivered; the thought of his persistence chilled her. “Please …” She lifted a beseeching hand, then let it fall to her side, conscious of the futility of asking him for anything. Instead she said, “What are you going to do?”

“Me? I’m not going to do anything.” His eyes shone with a hard, peculiar gleam that terrified her. “But you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only want one thing from you now, Lily. It’s really all I’ve ever wanted.” He stood up, and Lily wrapped her arms around herself and stood straighter. He went toward her slowly, daring her with his eyes not to move. By the time he reached her she had gone pale with dread and the effort of control. He reached one hand out to her shoulder and caressed her under the robe, softly, almost absentmindedly. “I want to sleep with you.” Her eyelids flickered, but otherwise she didn’t react. “Just for tonight,” he explained, running an idle finger under her chin, stroking her jaw. “One last time for us, hmm? For old times’ sake.”

She got out, “No,” in an aghast whisper.

“No?” he repeated, pressing her lips now with his forefinger but otherwise not touching her. “Oh—but I forgot to tell you what I will do if you refuse. I’ll have you arrested.” He watched color come into her cheeks, then recede as she went even whiter. Her lovely gray-green eyes widened; for a moment he was lost.

“Dev …”

The sighed word recalled him to his purpose. “You know I can do it. They’ll put you in prison, love. You’ll stay there until November for the assizes, and then they’ll try you. Clay can’t remember, but his note will be enough.”

“His—”

“They’ll hang you,” he said flatly, tired of sparring.

She took a step back. His cold, remote expression made her feel frozen inside. “I see.” She pulled her robe closer and bowed her head, absorbing his terms and the hateful things he’d said. She thought of the baby. “But if I give myself to you tonight…”

“I’ll let you go.”

She looked up. He stared back, and she saw the utter ruthlessness in his face. Her decision wasn’t automatic, and there was enough fight left in her to hope he knew it. But after a moment she answered, again in a whisper, “All right, Dev. You win.” Before she could think too long about it, she shrugged out of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. His face went even harder. Taking that for a dare, she crossed her arms and seized two handfuls of nightgown at the hips, pulled it up, and whisked it over her head. She held the balled cloth in her arms across her middle just for a second, and then flung it on the floor. Her voice came out high and thin. “Where do you want me? In the bed?”

Devon dragged his eyes back to her face. She thinks this is a game, he thought, that I’ll relent because I’m bluffing. “Yes, the bed,” he answered softly, then repeated the last two words when seconds passed and she didn’t move. Fascinated, he watched her smooth diaphragm contract with every panicked inhalation. Finally she turned and walked stiffly to the bed. She hesitated, both hands on the mattress, fingers spread. Her hair hung down her back like a dark flame; her skin was white enough to blind. She bent a little, and the movement of muscle in her thighs and buttocks made him stop breathing. With a natural grace that he remembered with shocking and painful clarity, she climbed onto the bed, then sat in the middle in a slightly awkward posture of waiting. “Lie down,” he said hoarsely. Her thin nostrils flared, but she obeyed. “Yes, on your back. For now.”

He moved closer. “Now open your arms and legs, Lily, as if you would welcome me.” She turned her face away, toward the wall. A moment later she spread her arms out on either side. He waited. “Lily?” He saw that her ribs were shuddering faintly, then uncontrollably, and in the flicker of candlelight he made out the silver rush of tears on the side of her face he could still see.

The hollowness inside him shifted, changed, as if her tears were the ones he’d kept himself from shedding for so long and now his emptiness was beginning to fill. He walked toward the bed, stripping off coat and waistcoat as he went, dragging his shirt out of his breeches. He sat beside her, facing her, one knee drawn up in the hollow of her waist, and put his hand on the soft, silky skin of her thigh. She jumped. He lowered his head and kissed her just above the knee, once. She sighed and covered her eyes with one hand. He said her name, and as he did so he parted her legs with his hands, slowly but strongly, allowing no resistance. He watched her abdomen tense and harden. With his palm he caressed her between her legs; using the back of his middle finger he opened her, stroking side to side.

Lily took a quick gulp of air and faced him, one arm still spread wide. He saw her tongue touch the roof of her mouth as she started to say his name. To stop her, he put his fingers inside her. Her eyes squeezed shut; her head went back against the pillow. “Don’t,” she said brokenly. “Dev, for the love of God—”

“Don’t talk, Lily.” He watched her eyes, and the slow, slick movements of his hand. She drew one knee up; after long minutes her breathing changed and her back arched subtly. Her struggle to resist was fierce and obvious. He waited, resisting the invitation of her soft breasts until her hands curled into fists and every muscle went rigid. Then he bent to taste her, taking one stiff nipple into his mouth. She clutched at him while he suckled her and stroked her with thorough, remorseless skill. She didn’t move or make a sound, but all at once he felt her strong, rhythmic contractions through his fingers and the palm of his hand.

The pulsing tapered away to soft, intermittent ripples. He straightened slowly. He wanted to see her face, but she kept it turned from him. Her breasts were flushed pink, wet from his kisses. He stared down at the still-intimate cupping of his hand, caressing her with a soft, insistent thumb. She jerked, and he stroked her again, but more gently. She moved her hand to cover his, stilling it, and looked at him.

She saw that his face was intent, aroused, but beyond that she couldn’t read his expression. Sorrow and uncertainty kept her motionless. It was not tenderness that had motivated the thing he had just done. But it was hardly cruelty, either. Something in between, she guessed, despairing. He had wanted her to feel defeated. She said his name, needing to connect with him in some way besides sex. His face didn’t change and he made no answer. “Dev,” she repeated, whispering. “Can you believe that I love you?”

Something flickered behind his eyes. She stared intently, straining to understand. Abruptly he got to his feet. She tensed, expecting anything. He began to pull off his boots, then his shirt and breeches.

She sat straight up, her face the color of ashes. “Don’t. Don’t do this. This is wrong, please don’t.” The sight of his naked body, powerfully aroused, filled her with primitive, unreasoning panic. Before she could move, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her down, sliding his big body over hers. She felt his knees forcing hers apart. “Please! Oh please, we have to talk, you—”

“I didn’t come here to talk.”

With a stab of anguish, she felt his maleness enter her quickly, sleekly. To her surprise he held still then, deep inside her. A truce. She tried to touch his face—if only she could reach him!—but he took her wrists away and pressed them back against the pillow. “Dev—”

“Don’t say anything.”

He began to move, seducing her with the slowness of his long, sensual stroking. The quickness of her response shamed her; for a few minutes she tried to dissemble, but it was useless. Tears filled her eyes. He stopped the wet tracks with his tongue, but when she moved her mouth to kiss him, he turned his face aside. His movements quickened and his eyes burned with purpose. She knew what he wanted. She said, “I can’t.”

“You can.” He embraced her, releasing her wrists, and at last she was allowed to touch him—his heated skin, the cool sleekness of his hair. Now it was his body that was trembling as she slid her hands over his buttocks and the rigid muscles of his back. She was dying to kiss him. She trailed her fingers under the hard bone of his clenched jaw; watching his eyes, she drew his head down and traced the strong outline of his lips with her tongue. He sucked in his breath; his shuddering intensified. But he was waiting, wanting her to let go of her control before his own snapped. It was a matter of power. Realizing it, Lily almost smiled, for this was a game she could win.

She shifted subtly and pulled her knees up, lodging him higher, tighter. Legs locked around his waist, she began to rock him with the same slow, canny, devastating artistry he had taught her. His face was buried in her hair, but she thought she could hear him grinding his teeth. Patient and passionate, she gave herself to him, daring him to reject the gift this time. She knew the instant his resistance began to disintegrate. He raised his head; just for an instant, behind the desire, she caught a glimpse of haggard suffering in his eyes. Her heart contracted. Cradling his dear face, she touched her lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. He shuddered, not moving, and then suddenly his open mouth slanted over hers and he returned her kiss with all the wild tenderness she had been afraid to hope for. He only lifted his head to grit out a low, hoarse shout when his climax came. It surged through him with a rough, tumultuous violence that she accepted gladly. She held him tightly, needing to shelter him until the storm passed. Afterward, he lay limp in her arms, sprawled across her, his breath rasping. But she could not tell from the heaviness of his body whether what he felt now was satisfaction or defeat.

And she couldn’t ask. Words were their enemy, had always been, but never, she sensed, more so than now. She stroked his damp skin, treasuring the rare peace, if that was what it was. Her love was as strong as ever. But he would not believe her if she told him of it, and she would do anything to keep on holding him. She pressed her breasts and her belly against him softly, secretly, because the need to tell him about the baby was overpowering her. Not being allowed to speak those words made her cry.

He felt her tears on his cheek and pushed up on his elbows to see her. He had never been able to stand it when she cried. In weary wonder, Devon heard himself say, “Don’t. It’s all right, Lily, don’t cry.”

He slid away and lay on his side beside her. Lily dried her face on the sheet, determined to stop this weak weeping. But her emotions were closer to the surface than she knew, because in the next minute she found herself saying, “I love you, Dev. I do, I swear it.”

A moment passed. Devon lifted his hand to her shoulder and patted it stiffly. “And I love you.” She drew in her breath, turning to look at him. His downcast eyes eluded her. “But you must marry Lewis,” he said in a sad, resigned voice. “I wish you happiness with him. He’s probably not a bad sort. His father’s rich, and that will help. But you already know that.”

What was left of Lily’s heart broke into pieces. “Will you remember me?” she whispered, eyes closed.

“Oh, yes. And you’ll remember me.”

Something in his voice made her heart stop. His fingers began to trail across her breasts in lazy, random patterns. A little later he covered her mouth with his, putting an end to speaking, arousing her in spite of a heavy listlessness that had begun to spread through her body. Turning her, he took her from behind this time, bringing her to her pleasure with slow, unrelenting patience. Heartsick, she fell into an exhausted sleep. Sometime in the night his skimming hands woke her. The candles had guttered; the room was dark and chilly. She suffered his strange, tormented loving in silence, too weary to speak now, or even to weep. The next time she awoke, she was alone.

“F
OR ‘THE WIFE HATH
not power of her own body but the husband, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband. Else were your children unclean, but now they are holy.’ ”

Lily closed her eyes and tried to attend more to the fine, theatrical rhythm of Soames’s marvelous voice than to St. Paul’s uncompromising message. Kindly, soaring, avuncular, celebratory, the voice filled every inch of the enormous, high-ceilinged drawing room, empty of furniture this morning to accommodate the eighty wedding guests crammed between its ornate, frescoed walls. At least their faces were a blur to her, white, featureless blotches with staring eyes. She was thankful for the gossamer veil covering her head, for if the guests could see her face clearly underneath, it might alarm them.

It had alarmed Soames’s wife a few minutes ago when she’d come to Lily’s room to tell her it was time. “My dear, you’re ill!” Then, “Oh, heavens—Roger won’t want to put off the ceremony,” she’d fretted, twisting her hands. Lily had to summon all her strength to reassure the good woman that she was not ill, only excited, and of course the wedding must go forward. But she felt another lurch of nausea now and pressed the prayerbook Lewis had given her more tightly to her stomach. She ought to have forced herself to eat something for breakfast after all, she thought distractedly. What if she fainted?

“ ‘Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything,’ ” Soames rumbled on, big square teeth bared for the dramatic “e” sounds. Lily’s knees had begun to tremble; she imagined for a few seconds how very easy it would be to slide to the floor, right here, right now. What on earth was she doing, marrying Lewis Soames? Surely this was a perversion, a sin, a willful crime against nature. Her very soul was in rebellion against it, and the battle inside was draining away the last of her physical resources. She still felt empty and violated from Devon’s harrowed, desperate lovemaking, and yet the thought of giving herself to her lawfully wedded husband seemed infinitely stranger, a truly unnatural act.