Love on a Midsummer Night (Shakespeare in Love #2) (18 page)

He set the candle back down on the table beside the bed, careful not to catch the silk hangings with its flame. He drew Arabella close. He kissed her lips clumsily, as if he was a green boy of eighteen and not an experienced man of eight and twenty. Arabella pressed her lips to his in a vain attempt to offer him comfort, but he would not be comforted. Pembroke drew her down onto the soft feather bed and turned her over, that he might look at her back.

The scars were high between her shoulder blades, as if Swanson had taken a riding crop to her bare skin. Pembroke had seen a man flogged once while on campaign. The scars that were left behind the whip were nothing compared to these.

“He only struck me once in this way,” she said as if to soothe him, as if being tortured only once made the offense forgivable.

“Tell me,” Pembroke said. He cleared his throat, but his tears kept falling. The salt fell on her old wounds. He smoothed his tears into her scars, as if his sorrow might heal her. “What else?”

Arabella understood him. She did not want to speak of it, but his hand was on hers. He could not plead with her, so he squeezed her fingertips as if to beg her with his touch. He could not find the words to ask it of her. His tongue would not obey him.

She looked over one shoulder at him, tears standing in her eyes. Pembroke saw her compassion and her deep love for him reflected there. Her tears were not for herself but for him.

“He struck me across the face now and then,” she said calmly, as if reporting on the weather the farmers might expect next spring. “But such blows leave marks. So when I was of marriageable age, he would take his cane to the bottoms of my feet. He had read about that punishment somewhere in his library. I believe the Persians use that method of chastisement to keep their women obedient. Or perhaps it was the Chinese. He told me once, but now I have forgotten.”

Pembroke listened to her words and they burned him worse than the sight of the blows had. He ran his fingertips over her scars, once, twice, again and again, moving his hand across them until he laid both palms across her shoulder blades, as if to block the sight of them out.

He sat up, forgetting his own nakedness and hers as he raised her with him. He drew her slender, tiny feet into his lap, caressing them, bringing them into the feeble candlelight. He saw no scars there, no bruising, but still his hands ran over the soles of her feet again and again, searching for old pain, as if his fingers spoke a mantra of healing that only he could hear. Arabella pressed her hand to his shoulder, her tears making two long tracks down her cheeks.

“I am long since healed,” she said. “He died a long time ago.”

Pembroke drew her into his arms and held her close, her soft body slender in the circle of his embrace. She leaned on his chest, her heart beating steadily against his, as small as a bird, as defenseless as a newborn lamb. Pembroke knew that there was evil in the world—he had seen his fill of it. But only now, as he held the woman he loved in his arms, did he understand the true meaning of evil and the depths that it would go to in order to vanquish good.

But Arabella was not vanquished. It was she who held him as he caressed her hair. She wept not for herself but for him. She clung to him as if his arms were the one safe haven she had in the wide world. Pembroke cradled her against him, kissing her hair, pressing the wisps down with his hands and his lips. They always slipped from his grasp, and he laughed with the taste of her hair on his lips.

“I love you, Arabella Swanson.”

“And I love you, Raymond Olivier. I am glad that you finally know it.”

All thoughts of lust had fled. Pembroke drew the counterpane up over them both until they were cocooned in the soft silk and feathered down of her bed. He had bought that bed just for her. He had decorated that room with her image in his mind, choosing the colors of wood and silk that he thought would best match her caramel hair, her eyes, her fair skin. She was here now. She was his. Pembroke swore an oath to himself silently as he held her in his arms that, no matter what she said, he would never let her go again.

As they lay down to sleep, Pembroke said, “If he was not already dead, I would kill him with my own hands.”

Arabella did not answer but pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. Pembroke caught her hand in his and held it there, drawing her close, wrapping his arms around her so that she could not escape even if she wanted to. He knew now why he had closed her bedroom door earlier that evening. Not to keep the world out, but to keep her in. She would not leave him again. If she tried, this time he would follow her to the ends of the earth.

Pembroke absorbed this knowledge of himself as Arabella fell asleep on his shoulder, her breathing even, her tears dry on her cheeks.

“I love thee. By my life, I do.”

A
Midsummer
Night’s Dream

Act 3, Scene 2

Arabella woke to sunlight on her face. The curtains had not been drawn over the windows the night before because the upstairs maid had been locked out of her bedroom.

She smiled, stretching, reaching out to feel the heat of Pembroke’s skin under her fingertips. He was as warm as an oven, and she burrowed beneath the covers to escape the light and to get closer to him.

He laughed, his voice low in his throat. “Good morning, Arabella. You are like a mole in the garden, hiding beneath these covers.”

She laughed, her own voice scratchy with sleep. “Good morning, Raymond.”

She hid her eyes against his shoulder but drew back to look at him as he pressed his hand to her cheek. He smiled down at her, his fingertips caressing her hair. Arabella realized then that she must look frightful. She had never before woken to find a man beside her. She smiled as Pembroke pressed his lips to hers. She did not care what she looked like, for the man with her was the one she loved. At long last, he was here, and she was with him. She would not concern herself with trifles like vanity.

His tongue found hers, swirling in the soft contours of her mouth, as if seeking hers in a game. She followed suit, until the game changed and they began to devour each other in earnest. She remembered then that she was completely naked, as he was. She had never been naked with a man before either, not before last night.

Pembroke must have felt her hesitation, for he drew back. Though his breath came short as hers did, she knew that he would only touch her if she wanted him to. She ran her tongue over her lips, savoring the taste of him that had not yet dissipated. She did want him to touch her, and more. It was fitting that she give herself to him in the light of day.

He smiled down at her, the errant lock of hair falling into his eyes as he raised himself above her on one elbow. She pressed her body against his beneath the feathered counterpane, and watched the blue of his eyes darken to indigo with desire.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I am sure,” she said.

He kissed her then, slowly this time, meditatively, as if to seal the bargain they had made. Arabella pressed closer to him, pushing away everything save for the way his strong body felt against her slender curves. She had been given a second chance with him. She was going to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

Pembroke raised himself over her, and she thought that he meant to press his manhood between her thighs. She remembered little of the marriage bed other than the pain, but she knew that her old husband had raised himself up on his elbows before impaling her with his failing member. The few times he had forced himself inside her, it had never taken him long to finish. She found herself wishing that it might take longer than a few seconds with Pembroke. Though she did not like pain, the thought of having him inside her made her shiver. She would endure more pain to keep him with her a little longer.

But Pembroke did not impale her with his member. He fell instead to kissing her breasts, his hands cupped beneath them, raising the delicate curves to his lips, first one breast and then the other.

Arabella lost her breath as he did that, pleasure at his touch rising within her like a wave on an ocean shore. She gasped as he took one of her nipples between his teeth. She opened her eyes wide and watched as his tongue slid over her breast, his hand caressing the other. He worshiped her breasts until she thought she might melt into the bed beneath him, and then his lips began to move lower, trailing down her stomach to her thighs.

Her body felt warm and lush in their cocoon of silk and linen, as if she had been transported to another world. The life she knew was far away, behind the white and blue silk of her bedroom curtains. Her world reduced itself to the room she lay in, to the bed where Pembroke lay on top of her, and finally to the place on her body where his lips slid down the inner curve of her thigh.

His mouth touched her then, and she reared up beneath him as if to escape the questing warmth of his tongue. Pembroke caught her and held her down so that she could not escape. He did not heed her fevered pleas to let her go but dove in deeper, kissing her secret places with his tongue just as he had kissed her mouth.

Arabella fought him for a moment but soon found that she might as well have fought off a bear. She was too feeble to win, and his tongue delving inside her only made her weaker. But behind that weakness, that languid, liquid heat, she began to feel her own strength building, a secret strength that she had never known existed.

It seemed there was within her a wealth of knowledge, a treasure of beauty stored up that she had never known. Pembroke knew of it though, just as he always knew things about her without her having to tell him. This time, she did not reveal a secret of hers only to find that he knew it already. This time, he revealed a secret to her.

She lay dumbfounded by the beauty within her as her pleasure built until she rose up once, crying out, a great wave of pleasure swamping her, taking her mind and her thoughts and tossing them aside as if they were nothing. Arabella lay back against the soft pillows of her feather bed, her breath gone, her voice gone. Tears were on her cheeks, but this time, they were tears of joy. She had never known such pleasure existed, that such strength and beauty lay hidden away inside of her. Pembroke had given her that. If she had the rest of her life to spend with him, she would never be able to pay him back, gift for gift.

That was what love meant, in the end. A debt you could never repay.

Pembroke saw her tears and drew her close, kissing them away. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

She wiped her tears on the hair of his chest, the warmth of his heart beating beneath her cheek. She found her breath and smiled up at him. “You did not hurt me. I weep for joy.”

Tears were in his eyes then and he pressed his lips to hers, a soft, lingering kiss that told her he would not touch her again if she did not wish it. But in spite of the pleasure his lips and tongue had given her, Arabella found that it was not enough. In spite of the pleasure that had built and faded, the pleasure that still lingered in her body like the glow of a dying fire, she wanted more.

She pressed him back against the bolster behind them, the pillows rising around them like a fortress, blocking out a little of the morning sun. Arabella followed him down into the little valley the pillows made, their white linen embroidered with silver and blue flowers. For the first time, Arabella saw that the blue of this bedroom matched the blue of her eyes.

Arabella kissed him, her mouth lingering over his, her tongue seeking his as he had taught her, her long hair falling over both of them in a wave of caramel and gold.

Pembroke’s hands were on her arms, drawing her closer, opening his mouth wide under hers, taking her in as he accepted all she had to give. She pressed herself against him, the length of her slender body touching the length of his. The hard planes of Pembroke’s chest and thighs cradled and supported her as he feasted on her mouth, on her tongue and lips, trailing down to kiss her throat, turning her over until she lay beneath him.

His blue eyes were dark with desire. He stared into her face, the smile he had worn before gone now, burned away in the heat that rose between them. She knew that he was going to ask her permission once again, and she knew also that she could not bear to hear him ask it. So she raised herself under him until her hips caressed his swelling manhood. She did not know how to draw him down and into her, but she made her desire known without words.

Pembroke laughed, a low, harsh sound that sent a wave of lust spilling down the edges of her spine. She shivered beneath him, for she saw that he needed no further prompting from her.

He rose over her, and this time she knew he would not turn back. His long, thick fingers slid between her thighs, and she opened them wider, as if to offer herself to take him in. Arabella did not care what he did to her or how it hurt. She wanted only for him to be inside her.

Her thoughts skittered away like fallen leaves caught in a blast of wind. Her breath rose in gasps as his fingers lingered between her thighs. Though desire had transformed his face into hard planes and angles, though his blue eyes were indigo as they caressed her breasts and hair and face, he was still the man she loved. He was still Raymond Olivier.

Arabella gasped beneath him as he tested her once more, his long fingers lingering within her for a moment before they withdrew, taking the heat of her with them. Pembroke raised those fingers to his mouth and sucked on them as he had sucked on her breasts. Arabella shuddered with pleasure to see him do it. She shook with longing as he lowered himself between her thighs, raising her hips to meet his.

He was gentle even as he slid inside her. She saw the tension in his jaw, the shaking of the muscles of his arms as he strained to contain himself, as he strove hard not to hurt her. Arabella opened her mouth to tell him that she did not care, that pain from him was worth more than pleasure from anyone else. But instead of words, instead of coherent thought and comfort for him, she found she could not speak at all. As he entered her, the hard length of him making him one with her for the rest of their lives, she could only gasp and then moan as her ecstasy began to mount.

Pembroke heard her moan, and a look of triumph crossed his face. But he did not give in to his own desire even then, but raised her hips and moved carefully between them, working against her body as if she were a puzzle he meant to solve. She felt it then, the deep fountain hidden within her, a place of hidden bliss broader than what she had found before when he had kissed her secret places. Pembroke, still watching her face, shifted the angle of his entry, and she moaned.

Pleasure built in her as a volcanic mountain rising suddenly from the depths of the sea. She did not climb that mountain but rose with it as Pembroke moved over her, using the rhythm of his hips against hers to drive her farther and farther into it. She felt the mountain that carried her shake beneath her as the waves of her ecstasy rose and crested. She came apart, calling his name over and over until she lost her breath.

Pembroke gave himself up to his own desire then, letting her hips fall beneath his as he drove himself into her again and again. He shuddered with his own satisfaction as he lost all control, and Arabella wrapped her arms and legs around him, drawing him closer, her arms behind his shoulders, her legs around his hips. Pembroke lay still against her, his breath coming in gasps, his weight across her as if a boulder from her mountain of bliss had fallen down to bury her.

She laughed a little under her breath, wondering how she could be capable of such glorious pleasure. Perhaps it was some magic, some alchemy that lay in Pembroke’s power alone. She knew that she would never find out. She would never make love with any man but him.

He raised himself off her so that his weight did not bear her down into the softness of the feather bed. Arabella felt the loss as he withdrew from her, rolling onto his back. He kept his arms wrapped around her and took her with him, so that she lay sprawled across his body like a living blanket, her legs entwined with his.

“Where was the pain?” she asked him.

Pembroke met her eyes, drawing himself back from the lingering effects of his own pleasure. Used to debauchery, he caught his breath much more quickly than she caught hers. He pushed the long strands of hair back from her face, leaving his large palm against her cheek so that she could not turn away.

“What pain?” he asked.

“Always with my husband, I felt unspeakable pain. It lasted the whole time he was with me. I felt no pain with you. Nothing but joy.”

She watched his blue eyes darken again, this time with anger and not with desire. He drew her down to lie across his chest, wrapping his arms around her as if to protect her from the world and from all the people in it.

“I am sorry he hurt you,” Pembroke said. “I would kill him, too, if he still lived.”

Arabella smiled, wondering why his threats to kill the men in her past made her so happy. Perhaps it was the tone of protectiveness in his voice when he made these threats against men who were dead.

“You will never know pain again, Arabella. I swear it. I will stand between you and what would harm you every day for the rest of my life.”

She did not tell him the obvious truth that he could no more keep her from pain than he could keep the sun from rising. Pain came with life as breath did, but joy came too.

Hawthorne threatened to rise up before her, a specter born to drive away her happiness. She closed her eyes against him and against the memory of his knife. He would not find her. She would be gone when he came. But here, alone with the man she loved, she would not think of him. He might take her future with Raymond, but he could not take this moment.

Arabella and Raymond did not make love again but lay in bed together for another hour, reveling in the silence, in the fact that the door to her room was locked, that no one could reach them. She did not think of the loss of the past or of the loss to come. She simply lay with her head on her lover’s chest, sweet touches the only talk between them.