Of Midnight Born (21 page)

Her eyes were half-closed, but she met his gaze without reservation. He saw the willingness there, the lack of resistance. He tilted his head to the side and laid his lips against hers, letting her feel the touch of them as he had the other night, letting her grow accustomed to the sensation. He wrapped his arms more closely around her and held her tight, feeling her breasts flatten against his chest.

He felt his manhood swelling further against the confines of his trousers, and the pressure of her hip wedged so tight against him. Her hands went up to the back of his neck, her fingers playing in the short hair that brushed his collar.

He put his hand on the back of her head, lightly stroking her hair and then cupping the back of her skull and holding her as he deepened the kiss, urging her mouth to open beneath his. As she gave way beneath him and allowed his entrance, he shifted and maneuvered her to the side, rolling over so that she was beneath him on the bed, her body half under his.

She made a noise of protest and pain, and he immediately pulled back. She struggled for a moment, her hand going behind her neck as she strained to rise, and he realized that she had become pinned by lying on her own hair. He eased her up, and with a practiced flick of her hand she swept her hair out from under her shoulders, to where it spilled like turbulent water over the coverlet and down the side of the bed. He had a sudden image of himself, naked, bathing in that hair, long strands of it twisted around his member.

She smiled up at him and raised her arms back to his neck. He needed no second invitation.

Distant echoes of propriety rang in his head, like the bells of a church from across the valley, but they seemed to have
little to do with the moment at hand or with either him or Serena. How could the rules of behavior for maidens apply to this? Serena was not of this world, and all that mattered was the pleasure they both desired.

He laid one leg between hers, pressing his manhood against her hip, his thigh tight against her sex. He massaged his hand in circles on the side of her waist gently, moving the fabric against her skin, encouraging her to writhe beneath him, to forget herself and enjoy the pressure of his body against hers.

He slid down several inches, bending his leg to keep it in contact with her, loving the feel of her long body against his. There was so much more of her to touch than with any other woman—it was like having a banquet set before him, after a lifetime of dainty teas. When his face came even with her breasts, he took the erect nipple of one into his open mouth, sucking at it through the layers of cloth, and pinching it gently with his teeth.

She arched beneath him, her hands falling to her sides. He looked up under his brows at her face. Her eyes were closed, her concentration all on her body and the sensations he gave her. He knew she had never felt anything like it in all her life, and the knowledge fueled a desire to see her reach the ultimate bliss in his arms.

He slid his hand under her buttocks, cupping one of the mounds, molding it with his hand, squeezing and massaging it as his mouth pulled harder against her breast, his breath and tongue dampening the cloth. He pressed his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttock, holding it in his hand and pushing it in a circle, knowing that the motion would pull indirectly at her sex, the flesh rubbing against itself and his thigh.

Her lips parted, and soft, involuntary moans rose from her throat. He reached down and gathered some of her skirt in his hand, pulling it up to where he could reach the bare
skin of her knee. His fingertips pressed lightly under her kneecaps, and her leg tensed in response, her hips rubbing against him as he let his fingertips move on, trailing lightly over her warm skin, her fine hairs teasing his nerve endings.

Her thigh was both muscled and soft, padded with a silken layer of fat that sent primitive messages to the core of his brain. She was ripe for sex, her body fertile ground waiting for the plow. He could lose himself in the warm wealth of her, plunging full-bore into the cradle of her hips, her softness capable of receiving and embracing every inch of hardness he gave to her.

He moved his hand upward and found the damp heat of her curls and the mound that rose above her sex, still hidden between the twin cushions of her thighs. He put his hand over the mound, fingers pointing downward, and moved his palm in a slow circle, pulling against the folds of her sex.

With his hand in constant motion, he moved back up her, to where he could again reach her neck with his mouth, his kisses this time harder, his tongue moving hard and fast against the bend of her neck, and upward to the small space behind the lobe of her ear.

When she gasped he moved to her mouth, his tongue going inside her as his fingers pressed between her thighs, covering her nether lips, the tip of his middle finger pressing into her opening. She was already growing damp, his finger finding a hot spring of slick wetness. He took it on his fingertip and spread it, moistening her, then laid his fingers against her again, catching the folds between them as he gently stroked up and down.

Her thighs parted of their own volition, opening like the door to a secret cavern. He rubbed his tongue against hers, and after a moment she responded, moving hers against his, then pushing forward to gain entrance into his own mouth. Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, her body arching toward him as she began to suck at his
tongue, her hips moving in rhythm with his hand as he stroked her.

He let his hand move down at the end of a stroke, his finger sliding within her, feeling the heated walls of her passage, the slick flesh springy with softness over the powerful inner muscles. His manhood ached to be inside that tight hallway, clasped by her strength and wetness as he thrust in and out. There was none of the cold here of his nightmare, none of the fear. She was burning with her own desire, her flesh as hot as that of any woman in the throes of passion. The faint, lingering dread of the nightmare was dissolved by the heat against his hand.

He took his finger out and rubbed the wetness in tight circles over the bud of her desire, feeling the hard nub beneath its hood. Her legs began to twitch, jerking with each touch, her body flexing against him. As her tongue stilled, he plunged his own back into her mouth, moving it in and out to match the rapid motion of her hips. He thrust his finger full-length inside her just as she found release, feeling the contractions of her muscles squeezing his finger.

Her thighs closed tight over his wrist, her body’s jerking slowing and then stopping. After a long moment she relaxed, and he carefully removed his finger from her. He looked at her, a smile of satisfaction pulling at the corners of his mouth at what he had done, but it was not over yet. When he took her a second time, this time with his manhood, she would be screaming with pleasure.

“Alex,” she said, and opened her eyes and pulled his face close to hers, sprinkling it with fairy kisses. She then held him still while she stared deeply into his eyes, her own appearing a deep gray-blue. She brought his head down with her hands and slowly, reverently, kissed each of his eyelids shut.

A quiver went through him, her lips upon him filled him with an emotion gentler than any he had ever known. It was
as if she touched him with her soul, her heart speaking to him through her lips and hands.

The realization of her depth of caring shook him. A moment ago all he had wanted was to continue his seduction of her, taking her to the heights of what her body could feel, but now he could not do so. He had not considered that this was more to her than bodies in the night. She was a virgin who had never known love, and to continue would be dishonorable if he could not give back to her the same depth of feeling she gave to him. He did not want to hurt her. She was too precious, too fragile. Satisfying his animal desires was not enough of a reason to cause her heart further pain.

Damn his conscience. He wished it could have waited another half hour before coming awake.

Alex pushed Serena’s skirts down, then gathered her close in his arms, pulling her to lie snuggled against his side. He brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed her softly between the brows. Her hand on his chest gripped him once, then relaxed, her whole body following suit, as she was apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a whole world of experience she had not yet had.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of other things, and to ignore the manhood that lay stiff and yearning against his belly.

Bath

“I’m glad that’s over,” George Stearne, Philippa’s husband, said, as he leaned on the billiard cue clasped in both his hands. There was a chorus of agreement from the small group of men assembled around George’s billiards table, their jackets off, their cravats loosened. None of them took a woman’s delight in weddings, and Sophie’s wedding today had been no exception.

Alex made a grunt of agreement to match those of the rest of his close male relatives: in-laws, mostly, except for Rhys and one other male cousin. His young sister and her beloved Blandamour were now safely on their way to his vicarage, there to share their first night of connubial bliss.

“Alex, did Blandamour ever make good on his offer to look up the Clerenbold family in parish records?” Rhys asked from across the table, a wide glass of dark amber whiskey in his hand.

Alex tried to read Rhys’s expression through the haze of smoke in the room, but the dim light and his own consumption of drink this day defeated him. He had not spoken privately with his cousin since Beth had interrupted his kiss with Serena, and did not know what Beth had told him. He had been avoiding Rhys, not wanting to hear whatever lectures he had in mind to deliver, and in no mood to discuss anything of what had passed between him and Serena.

After that night when he had brought her to ecstasy, he
had left Maiden Castle. He’d used the semivalid excuse of required attention at the mills, forging new business acquaintances, and then being in town for the final preparations for Sophie’s wedding. The one obstacle that might have kept him from going—the danger of le Gayne’s return—she had removed herself, saying that she would be safe if she stayed near the medallion Madame Zousa had given her. That had been all she had said to him, and she had stood cold as stone as he gave her a peck on the cheek in farewell.

It was a surprise that she had even allowed him to touch her that much, given his transparent excuses. As lacking in tenderness as his parting had been, it was the best he could manage. The thought of having her hold him and whisper endearments in his ear had terrified him more than any of her ghostly antics ever had.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with her. He just didn’t want her to feel anything for him beyond the friendship and sexual desire that was all he himself was capable of giving.

“Who are the Clerenbolds?” George asked. He was a portly man, balding, with colorless eyes, and was a bad businessman when left to his own devices. Philippa held a firm hold on the purse strings in the family, as well as on the strings that controlled George’s actions in commerce. Alex had to give the man credit for being married to Philippa and still retaining his basic good humor.

“The Clerenbolds,” Alex said, deciding it was best to keep control of the conversation, “are a family who lived in a keep a few miles from my present home, in the fourteenth century. According to what my new brother-in-law was able to discern, the family died out around the time of the plague. There has been speculation that Serena Clerenbold, the last daughter of the family, married the man who lived in the original Maiden Castle, but unfortunately this remains
speculation only. Blandamour could find no proof of such a marriage, although he is determined to keep looking.”

“The ghost!” Percy Cletch said. He was married to Alex’s second-oldest sister, Constance. A tall, skinny physician with a fondness for studying both insects and human parasites—and drawing them in great detail—Percy was the only relative who had seemed to understand Alex’s wish to study falling stars. Alex often thought Percy would be happiest giving up his doctoring and going to live in a tropical jungle teeming with bugs and worms. “I hadn’t wanted to bring her up myself, but I say, I’ve been dying of curiosity to hear about her.”

“Does she have anything to do with that coachman you have?” Harold Tubble asked. Married to Alex’s gossipy sister Amelia, Harold was a less-than-brilliant squire with an unfettered love for dogs. On the rare occasion Alex had been to their country home, the smell of dog had all but overwhelmed his normally undiscerning nose. “Who ever heard of a woman driving a carriage! What’s next, a female ship’s captain?” he said, and gave a belly laugh that the others joined in.

“My wife says she feels much safer with Nancy Clark at the reins than she ever did with Sommer,” Rhys said when the laughter died down. “She says the girl has a gentle hand with the horses.”

Alex shot his cousin a look, surprised by the defense.

“Likely drives them at a pace even an old woman would like,” Harold said.

“I beg your pardon,” Rhys said stiffly. “My wife is no old woman.”

“I don’t care about the coachman—coachgirl—whatever she is,” Percy interrupted impatiently. “I want to hear about the ghost.”

“Philippa about burst her corset when Sophie told her about that gathering you all had,” George said, his eyes
glowing. Alex doubted very much whether Philippa would appreciate having any undergarment of hers mentioned aloud.

“My aunt Millicent had a ghost in her house,” Harold said. “Used to scare the wits out of me as a child, although all it ever did was move things around when no one was looking. Uncle Frederick said he thought it was Millie herself, forgetting where she’d put things, and there was no ghost a’tall.”

“I saw a ghost once,” one of the other cousins said. All eyes turned to him, and he continued, “A lady in gray, going down a staircase. I wasn’t more than six or seven years old. My family was visiting friends in their country house, an old place falling down around their ears. She looked real as day, and it was only when she vanished at the bottom of the stairs that I knew she wasn’t. We later found out that she had been seen there several times. No one knew who she was, although one guess was that she was the wife of the man who originally built the house.”

“Gray ladies, white ladies—why do they always wear those colors?” Rhys asked the room at large.

“Women like to dress alike,” Harold said. “Just look at the lot of them at any assembly here in Bath. If they can’t think for themselves while alive, they certainly won’t when dead.”

“Ah, so there are afterlife fashion plates for them to follow. I should have known,” Rhys said. “That explains it.”

“Could we please return to the subject at hand?” Percy asked in pained tones.

“Very well,” Rhys said. “Alex, what color dress does Serena wear?”

Alex let his glance play over the faces watching him, waiting for an answer. The alcohol in his blood had loosened some of his self-control, and begged him to abandon his habit of remaining quiet on personal matters. They were looking for an entertaining story, something to while away
the time before they had to go back to their wives—many of them his own sisters, poor fellows—so why not give it to them? Let them go back to their marriage beds with a tale to tell, rather than the endless speculation they were so fond of. Besides, it would be a wonderful thing to see Rhys’s eyes go wide. He still had not forgiven him for all those pranks as a child.

“She wears white,” Alex said. “A white sleeveless surcoat with gold embroidery, and a gold-link girdle. Beneath it is a pink underdress, fitted tight to her body so that you can see every curve. She wears no corset, her breasts shaping her clothes themselves, no stiff fabric between them and the outside world.”

He smiled at the room of men. They stared back.

“Have you touched them, then?” Harold asked. “Her breasts.”

“You can’t touch a ghost,” Percy said dismissively. And then, “Can you?”

“What if I said you could?” Alex asked. “If you were given the chance, if she came to you in your bed while you lay undressed and reached for you, would you let her do as she wished?”

“Not with Philippa by my side,” George said sadly. “I’d pay for it the rest of my life.”

“Depends if she’s a comely wench,” Harold said. “No use having a go at a phantom hag when you could find plenty of living ones the next house over.”

“Say you are bachelors still,” Alex said, to a chorus of ayes. “Say she is long of limb, with pale gold hair that brushes her thighs, and dark eyes that are like looking into eternity. What would you do then?”

“Give it to her!” Harold cried.

“I wouldn’t want to deprive the unfortunate woman of her one joy,” George said solemnly.

“For curiosity’s sake, I’d have to give in to her demands,”
Percy said. “It would be a unique experience, well worth studying.”

“It’s not that simple,” Rhys said, interrupting the voices that were speaking over each other with descriptions of what they’d do to such a ghostly figure in their beds. “The ghost haunts the house you live in. She is always there. She attacks people she doesn’t like. She can follow you day and night, never leaving your side. She can hear every word you say, and see everything you do.”

“Sounds like Philippa,” George said gloomily.

“Now you’re talking about marriage,” Harold agreed.

“You can leave the house whenever you wish, and she won’t come with you,” Alex said, knowing that such would appeal to them. Personally, he would like to take Serena places. “She doesn’t spend money: she never buys new clothes or furniture, she never plans parties, she never insists on taking a trip or going to a play or the opera.” There were grunts of approval from his audience. “Certainly she does not plan ‘musical evenings’ in the drawing room. She has no relatives living.” That got a surprised laugh, all of them in the room in-laws or relatives of each other. “She cannot be unfaithful, or bear children.” What would the children of himself and Serena look like? Tall and strong.

“That’s more a mistress than a wife,” a cousin said.

“Only she can’t give you the clap!” Harold threw in. “Won’t cost you gewgaws and upkeep, either.”

“She’s always there when you want her,” George said wistfully. “And always willing.”

“She never grows tired,” Alex said.

“No headaches?” Harold said. “There’s the gal for me.”

“Physics would suggest that a female ghost could assume all manner of unusual positions,” Percy said. The room was quiet for a moment as male minds went to work on those possibilities.

“She’ll always stay exactly the same,” Rhys said into the
quiet. “She’ll never grow old, never grow fat.” He looked directly at Alex. “She’ll never die.”

“I’d pass her on to my son,” Harold said, oblivious to the undercurrent that had just passed between Rhys and Alex. “Like an inheritance. Better for his first experience than a whore, I’ll warrant.”

“No, she won’t, will she?” Alex said to Rhys, ignoring Harold’s comment. “She’ll never get sick, or catch a fever that wastes her body away to nothing. She’ll never be thrown from a horse, fall down a flight of stairs, or have so much as a toothache. Wouldn’t you wish the same for Beth, if you could?”

“What joy is there in living if you never change?” Rhys said. “I don’t think Beth would like to stand by and watch me grow old and die.”

“That’s what you think!” Harold said. “She’d find another to replace you soon enough.”

“It does seem a trifle vain of you to assume you are her only reason for living,” Alex said.

“Women!” Harold said. “They have the world fooled. We’re told they are the romantic ones, but I tell you, they are mercenaries at heart, every one of them. My body wouldn’t be cold before Amelia would be tallying my assets and planning a tour of the continent. I, on the other hand,” he said, putting his hand over his heart, “worship the very ground her dainty foot sets sole to.”

Several gazed incredulously at Harold; then George said, “That is the purest bucket of drivel you’ve ever let pour from your mouth, Harold. I know for a fact that your dear Amelia and my precious Philippa have the same size feet, and they are not a one of them dainty. You show more devotion to your dogs than to your wife.”

Harold shrugged. “They do just as good a job of keeping a man warm at night, and they don’t complain about the snoring.”

“Is this all talk, Alex,” Percy asked, “or do you actually see this ghost, this Serena?”

Alex looked blankly at his brother-in-law, his mind still caught up in swirls of drunken anger at Rhys’s comments. What did his cousin know about losing a wife? What state would he be in were something to happen to Beth? Pray God nothing like that ever happened, but if it did…? Alex doubted Rhys would be willing to suffer such a loss again, if ever. How dared he judge his actions?

“Alex?” Percy repeated. “Do you see her?”

“She comes to me every night,” Alex said, throwing caution completely to the winds. “She is as solid as you, Percy, when she chooses, yet I warrant her touch is far more pleasing.”
Let Rhys chew on that. Let them all chew on it.
His brothers-in-law, whose income was partially dependent upon him, could worry that he’d lost his mind and that the money would soon follow.

He was sick unto death of behaving as he was supposed to. They all—his sisters, his cousins, too—wanted him to
behave
—meaning live as they lived. They wanted him to get married again, to “settle down,” to have a family. He suspected the men wanted that as well, if only so he would stop being a silent taunt to them with his freedom.

Toe the line, Alex. Be responsible, Alex. Don’t let us down. Make money. Be a gentleman. Don’t be crude; don’t upset anyone. Behave.

To hell with that.
He’d lived up to his responsibilities, and now that the last sister was in someone else’s hands, he’d do as he pleased, and be damned with what anyone thought.

“She’s actually a fascinating young woman,” Alex said. “I’m thinking that I’ll leave the lot of you to provide the descendants, and spend my remaining years with Serena. She’ll make a far more interesting companion than any of the bits of fluff floating around Bath, and I don’t even have to marry her.” He frowned up at the ceiling as if in contemplation,
then continued. “Although I suppose that could be arranged, if she felt it necessary. She comes from an era more devout than our own, and she is Catholic, after all. Perhaps I should ask her when I return.”

A few uncertain chuckles greeted his words. He looked around the room and saw that no one knew quite what to think of his proposal. Unlike Rhys, he was not known for his stories and jokes, and they clearly did not know if he was serious, or only speaking from his cups.