Love's Magic (12 page)

The gray orbs were smoldering, like banked ash. What would those eyes look like once the fire caught, and raged out of control?

Celestia dropped her hand to her belly, her thighs trembling with desire instead of nerves. The reaction was so instantaneous that she didn’t have time to rationalize her feelings, nor fight against them.

All she could think about were his hands caressing her bare skin. Would his chest be hard beneath her touch? She already knew that his body was covered with a smattering of dark hair, it had fascinated her—the way the curls crossed his chest, only to taper downward. She lowered her eyes and prayed that he couldn’t read her unseemly thoughts.

“No.” His voice was gruff, and it doused her feelings like a plunge into the lake. “I’ll not have it.”

It could be that he found her simply undesirable, that she was experiencing things he was not. Fate could be cruel, but she’d not lay her heart at the feet of a man who would trample it—for her, love and lust had to be one.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes, striving to find that cold place Nicholas lived in.

“Is the wine not to your liking?”

Nicholas brought the goblet to his lips, never taking his gaze from Celestia. She was like a dream, her pale beauty against the vibrant fabric behind her. He hadn’t felt the hot burning of desire in so long, and yet these past two days, just laying eyes upon his wife brought him close to bursting. “‘Tis nothing. The wine is fine, my lady.”

Gesturing toward the low table, she said in a clipped tone, “We have roasted hare, bread, and cheese.” As if he wasn’t there, she began unlacing the bodice of her tunic.

Nicholas fought for and found his self-control. “We should talk. I’ve told the men I would take first watch, but they forced me to come to, uh, you.” He cleared his throat, his ears burning at the ribald jokes the men had made regarding the wedding bed.

He noticed her fingers knot a lace, and she muttered what sounded like a curse. Surely not? He did not know her well, but she was a lady, forced into a situation not of her choosing.

“It will be difficult to keep up the illusion of being wed, with so many witnesses.” He took another drink of wine.

The tunic fell open, revealing a sheer linen under-gown. Feeling perverse, but unable to stop himself, he stole repeated glances. The pink of a pert nipple was visible, as was the dip of her belly. She said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?” Nicholas’s penis stirred at the news.

She pointed to the bed. “Would you sit, please?” Celestia shrugged off the tunic completely so that she stood before him in the practically invisible linen gown. He was reminded of the crackling, mind-numbing heat between them on their wedding night. It had taken all of his will to stand his ground then, and he didn’t know if he was strong enough to do it twice.

“I don’t think,” he blustered, draining the remnant of his wine despite the bitter aftertaste. “I suppose that, well, the annulment can’t happen if we consu—” she brushed by him on the way to the pallet, her hair a beacon as he choked out the words, “consummate our,” she lay back against the pillows and patted the spot next to her.

His body told his head to take a jump off the nearest cliff.

He covered his face with one hand, as if that would block the image of Celestia supine before him, her unbraided hair spread out behind her. He croaked, “Why, have you changed your mind about us doing, er, it?”

She closed her eyes, mumbling something. Nicholas found himself enamored of her golden lashes as they fluttered against her porcelain skin. What would they feel like, if he ran his fingertips over them? Soft, delicate as silk. “I can’t come to bed,” he said, stomping across the tent floor and taking a seat on the single low stool, as far away from Celestia as possible. He crossed one foot over the opposite knee. “Boots.”

Shifting, she rose to one elbow on her side, her gaze pinioning him. “Would you care for help?” She spoke slowly, her voice a melody to his ears. “I’ve not been prepared to be a good wife, Nicholas, but I am willing to learn.”

He groaned and tugged the boot off his foot, then switched legs. Teaching, learning, lovemaking—no. “The annulment is for the best.”

“But what if the baron says no? My family is relying on me to save them, and I … I have feelings for you, Nicholas, that I would be willing to explore.”

Nicholas tossed the boot to the corner, then stood, his entire body humming with the need to bury himself deep within his wife’s sheath.

He picked up a slice of bread and took a ferocious bite. “I am not worthy of anyone’s feelings, my lady. I’ve told you before,” he chewed and swallowed, “I am going to confront Baron Peregrine—”

“Your father.”

“He is not that to me,” Nicholas welcomed the anger that took the edge off of this unseemly attraction. “I will confront him, and you can return home, as pure as you are now.”

The open expression on her beautiful face fell, and he wondered if she was keeping a secret from him.

“I am a healer, my lord, if, uh …” she stammered as she looked pointedly toward his groin, “if there is anything you want to tell me?”

Nicholas reached for the goblet of wine, but found it empty. Had she been implying that there was something wrong with his manhood? Come to think of it, her father had been asking many pointed questions, as well.

He saw her take a deep breath before she lifted her eyes to his. Nicholas coughed on a stone from the bread, wondering if he could choke to death on embarrassment.

“There is nothing wrong with my, er, parts.” He took a piece of cheese, eating because he didn’t know what else to do. His head felt fuzzy, and his tongue thick. He was desperately thirsty, so he poured more wine.

“I am so glad to hear it, my lord.”

Was that a tremble in her voice? “My reasons for keeping you untouched are noble ones. Why do you tempt me with something I do not want?”

She sat up, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, the roses gone from her plump cheeks.

His fingertips itched to touch her hair, to trace the shadow between her breasts. Why did he feel like he would jump from his skin for the merest chance to be inside of hers?

His voice shook as he said, “I told you before that I won’t be consummating this marriage, my lady. It doesn’t concern you.”

He’d not seen such a sudden flash of temper, as she exploded upwards from the pallet, her fists clenched at her sides. “Not concern me? Is this a new humiliation for me? You are so repulsed by my healing gifts that you cannot even lie next to me? I’d changed my mind about seducing you tonight, but now—I don’t care if I ever reach beyond your cold exterior! I care not for your reasons, by God. What shall I tell my maids? That you are not a man? What shall I say to my family when I don’t get with child? That I will never save my brothers because it is
none of my concern?
”

Nicholas gripped the goblet, taken aback by her anger, nay, not anger, fury. His own irritation rose to the fore in answer. “I am a man, my lady, but my own. I won’t be dictated to—I married you to save you from being burned as a witch, not to beget children.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “It has nothing to do with your healing magic.”

Her eyes widened, and she tossed the blanket from her shoulders as if preparing for battle. The shy lady he’d wed was nowhere to be found in the woman before him.

His belly clenched as she stepped closer to him.

“Am I too ugly for you?” Her eyes blazed blue-green, firing him to the core. Her hair swung like a golden curtain he wanted to plunge his hands through. “Too small for you?” She ran her fingers over her breasts, breasts that begged to be cupped, then down to her slender, flared hips, hips he could circle with both hands. She pinched her cheeks until they were pink again, as pink as the bud of her mouth. “Too pale for you?” She snorted with scorn. “Too
female
for you?”

“What?” At that prod, Nicholas crossed the floor in two giant strides. He grabbed her by the back of the hair and smashed his lips to hers. He lifted her by the hips and sank with her into the cushions, pressing his hardness into the covered apex of her thighs.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as if she’d been held in a passionate embrace a hundred times before. Her lips parted to accept his tongue. Responsive and sweet, Celestia was warm, she was lush, she was beautiful. Nicholas cupped the perfect mound of her breast, tweaking the peaked nipple underneath the linen gown. Had a woman ever smelled so good? He buried his face in her hair, then kissed each delicate fingertip on each of her hands. Orange, cinnamon, and opium.

Opium?

“No,” he groaned, banishing Leah and her dark ways from his memories.

He rolled to the side, seeing Celestia smiling uncertainly at him, tempting him on purpose. The scar at the base of his throat throbbed. She had a knife. No, that wasn’t right. Nicholas shook his head to clear it.

Celestia was not trying to kill him.

He was not a prisoner. This was not Tripoli. He was in England, and he’d almost lost complete control of this bizarre situation.

“Nicholas?” Celestia’s eyes turned questioning. Had she felt his shame? Had her strange talents allowed her to see the blackness of his spirit?

He refused to look at her. He got to his feet, opened the tent flap, and made a large production of adjusting the front of his tunic and hose. He turned back. “There. That should satisfy whoever is asking about whether or not I am man enough.”

He tied his belt. “You are free to tell them what you wish. I don’t want you to have to be
humiliated.
And Celestia,” he paused and tossed her a quick glance, “never do that again.”

She’d not cried herself to sleep since the Lord Riddleton incident.

A thrashing noise pulled Celestia from a troubled slumber. Frightened, she clutched the fur around her shoulders and stumbled to her feet. Moonlight filtered through the seams in the tent, and she saw her eating knife on the low table. Bess and Viola had slept in the wagon, so as not to disturb the newly wedded couple.

Wincing, Celestia wouldn’t tell them they needn’t have bothered. The thrashing sounded again. Louder.

Against the rear of the tent.

What if it was a bear drawn by the leftover food? Grabbing the knife, she eased the flap open. She let her eyes adjust to the night, and listened intently for the next sound.

She heard panting, then a low growl.

Her body was poised for flight, or a fight, depending on the size of the animal. Celestia tiptoed around to the side of the tent, her eyes scanning the deep dark of night. A pain-filled yell came from her left, and she spun around, her knife out. Behind the tent? Without thinking of the danger, she ran to save whomever had screamed so. They were under attack.

Heart pounding, mouth dry, she turned the corner and then stopped in mid-stride. Nicholas was tangled up in a sleeping roll, one pale bare leg visible and glowing like the moon. Her mind quickly thought through and then rejected many ideas. Had he hoped to save her embarrassment by sleeping out of sight of the others, yet save his chastity by not sleeping inside with her?

Then his hips rolled beneath the blanket and her mouth went dry. Confusion surged as she stepped forward, the knife outstretched. “Nicholas?” she whispered. He rolled back and forth, as if trying to subdue someone. She stopped again and licked her dry lips. What if he wasn’t alone?

What if he was with another woman?

Nay! He gave another muffled yelp, and she leaned down and flicked back the top blanket. Nicholas was gasping for breath, holding his hands in front of him as if they were tied together and he was shielding himself from a deadly blow. Celestia bent over to look, but nothing bound him.

“Nicholas,” she said again as calmly as she could. When he was ill, he’d responded best to that. Just like she’d thought, he was on the verge of relapse and fever.

He spewed something in a foreign language, then whispered harshly, “You rotten bastards, let me go, damn you to all seven layers of hell—I’ll not be your whore!”

Celestia hopped back just as Nicholas lashed out with his foot. She swallowed uncertainly. Nicholas’s voice was choked and raw, as if he were fighting for his soul. The demons he fought were so real, no wonder he avoided sleep.

Dare she intervene?

“Damn you.” He kicked out again, his brow furrowed as he fought his tormentors. She knew that he uttered words he wouldn’t want anyone to hear. Her hand hovered over his head as she sought to calm him without disturbing his fight. Gram said that ofttimes a person worked through their tragedies while sleeping.

How many ungodly things had happened in the holy fight for Jerusalem? Tears pricked behind her lids as she spoke as soothingly as the situation would allow, “Nicholas, wake up. Open your eyes, Nicholas, you are safe in England. ‘Tis only me, Celestia …”

She removed the fur covering from her shoulders and dropped it over his thrashing, mumbling form.

His eyes whipped open, and she covered her mouth to stifle a scream. They were twin pits of despair, eerily unfocused and thoroughly black. His hands were in fists, and his body trembled with rage.