The Windflower (53 page)

His voice, though quiet, was startling in the silence.

"Why do you look away?"

Sitting on her heels, caught in the throes of an embarrassment that was, for once, strangely pleasant, she said, "I don't know." As she inspected the quilt it occurred to her suddenly that his stillness was deliberate. He must be wondering whether another approach would provoke another retreat. There had been a very real curiosity in his question, and the need to search out the delicate shift of her mood. For a moment she was exasperated with her own complexity and rather ashamed that he was forced to cater to it; then she forgave herself because when it came right down to it, he wasn't exactly simple himself. But here they were at last, married, and warily together, and in spite of everything, wanting each other. Or at least she wanted him, and he
said
he wanted her. Grateful, and frustrated that he had chosen this, of all times, to be patient, she plucked at a blue pucker in the quilt and said, "Devon? What does it make you feel when 1 look at you?"

The half smile was warm, a little rueful, and very human, his features no longer those of a beautiful and soulless idol but of a man, with his own sensitivities.

"Pleasure," he said.

She stretched a hesitant finger and lightly stroked a fold of his white lawn shirt. "And if I touch you?" she whispered.

His eyes widened in response. In a low tone that had a faintly breathless quality to it, he said, "Touch me. I'll try to describe it for you."

Desire long denied was rioting in her veins as he moved invitingly closer. Her trembling fingers loosened one by one the mother-of-pearl buttons of his shirt as she watched the soft tumbling fabric open over his taut sun-gilt skin. Shy inside, and numbly aware that not much more than an hour ago she had denied hypocritically any desire to be with him, she stood up, her feet apart, her toes curling for balance on the thick quilt with its undependable foundation of hay. Devon's gaze was passing over her in light inquiry; she saw his lips part and catch a hard breath as she put her hands behind her and began to open her gown. In a love daze she slid to her knees by him, clad only in the slippery silk and white lace of her ^chemise, its openwork hem teasing her thighs. Her fingers caught his shirt, spreading it slowly over the rise of his chest and the tight-knit modeling of his stomach. Beautiful, the fresh expanse of naked flesh looked beautiful to her, though she wasn't quite sure what to do with it. But the wind-dusted fragrance of his skin was so sweet to her senses that it was making her head reel. Like one of the kittens might have done, she lay at his side, nuzzling her face into his firm belly just below his lowest ribs. Underneath the velvet luxury of his skin his chest muscles contracted harshly. He said her name once, a ragged inhalation as she showered exuberant, inexpert kisses between each rib and over the delicately fleeced curves of his chest,

"Describe it," she whispered with husky cheerfulness, trailing the pink tip of her tongue upward, and then descending in earthy, lacing patterns.

"The word that—" His rough murmur failed. Her body pressed close to him, her breasts a soft, unconsciously thrusting caress against his hips. "Merry—" he whispered thickly. He sought her cheek with an unsteady hand, the fingers penetrating her hair, the little finger wandering lower to find and stroke the elaborate inner surfaces of her ear. "My love, the word that comes to mind"—his breathing sharpened again as her hands slid over his thighs—"is torment."

Putting her head back with a slight laugh, she looked up into his face with its satiny eyelashes and love-flush. "You needn't think I'm completely ignorant about what happens between men and women," she said. With slumberous satisfaction she added, "I've talked to Cat."

"Have you?" He was gently massaging her earlobe, his smile a luxuriant haze. "A masterful source. You probably know more than me. What approach did he take—skyrockets and roses, or gears and pulleys?"

His little finger wandered across the lift of her cheek to her nose, circling the petallike nostrils with his fingertip, then dropping downward to her upper lip. Her iips parted under his gentle probing and her eyes drifted closed as his fingertip barely entered her mouth, exploring the wet silk interior, carrying the moisture outward to dew her breath-dried lips.

Against his fingers she said, "Neither. We used Latin words." Suddenly she rolled a single revolution away, her eyes brilliant with laughter, "i'd better run back to my valise for my notes." Stumbling upright, she swung on her heel. She stood poised as though for flight, her foot sunk within the quilt into a furrow in the surface beneath. As she shifted her feet slightly apart to catch her balance she felt Devon's hand encircle her ankle from behind. His grip was ever so soft, a caress.

His lips touched her ankle, his breath feathering over her skin. Expert fingers began to massage her calf. The other hand stroked higher; she drew a soft, shuddering gasp as palm and fingers spanned the back of her thigh, his finger grazing the swell of her buttock. Touching his mouth to the hollow behind her knee, he pressed lightly nipping kisses there, his hair brushing with flossy softness of her thigh. Any desire she'd had to play and be silly faded into an intense need that grew dizzily under the pressure of his exploration.

"Every part of you is so dear to me," he whispered. Kneeling behind her on the quilt, he slid a steadying arm around her waist, over the slick fabric of her chemise, its hem riding up to fan daintily at her hips. "Lovely . . . lovely Merry . . . your legs are beautiful" —the sensitive male fingers followed the silken line of her thigh upward—"so straight and strong. You can't know how long I've wanted them to hold me."

Agonized by the pressure of his arm so close to her breasts, she caught his wrist in shaking fingers and dragged his hand to her aching flesh, gasping as his fingers cupped her. Through the glossy cloth his thumb sought her nipple, prodding it to erection. The other hand slipped between her legs, caressing the heavy satin of her inner thighs.

Her eyes had drifted closed, her hands clasping his arm and wrist for support, absorbing its gentle motion as it shaped and lifted het breast and then wandered to the creamy plane above. His hand cradled her throat, soothing her thundering pulsebeat when his other hand slid under her chemise up the trembling flesh of her leg to the silky curls there. Very gently he let his fingers enter her, though not deeply, and felt the hard shivers rack her slender body and the clench of her fingers on his arm.

Murmuring his desire, he let his hands glide over her rippling undergarment to her hips, turning her to him, his fingers spreading on her bottom. He pulled her close, enchanted by the provocative form of her bare legs against his skin. Need for her ran like flame-licked brandy through his body. With searing tenderness he nestled his face into the warm cloud of her kitteny softness. The gossamer texture of her curls on his lips intoxicated him; and her fragrance, the sweet-brier tang of her bath soap tinged in nectarous awakening, possessed his rocketing senses.

But he felt her straining to escape him, whimpering, "No . . . oh, Devon, please ..." Looking up into the blue eyes darkened with arousal and heated distress, noticing the blush staining her cheekbones with twin rose-hued crescents, he saw he had shocked her. New to this as she was, she needed his moderation, but smothered as he was in desire that had been deferred until he was almost crazy from it, there was a panicked moment when he was afraid he might not be able to give it to her. He tried to remember a time when he had been as she was now, tender and untried, though he seemed not to be able to think of anything except her heat and colors and firm cherub's flesh. Fighting to conquer the mindless demands of his appetite, he tightened his arms on her hips, drawing her down, rolling her onto her back, forcing himself to gaze down into the unguarded blue of her eyes.

Stroking her cheek with the backs of fingers that were shaking badly, he said, "Forgive me, little flower . . . You're so fair, every petal . . . Help me, Merry, please. Please, love, tell me to be gentle with you. ..."

The blue eyes snapped shut, the earnest lips twisting daintily in a martyr's frustration. Painfully she whispered, "Don't be gentle, Devon. Be
quick."

He had begun to laugh then, and he was laughing yet when he Came down to her again after shedding his clothes and slowly drawing off her chemise. His lips descended to her throat in a hungry caress before his mouth covered hers, glorying in the way she rose to meet his kiss, opening herself to his searching fingers. In a moment she murmured, "I g-guess marriage isn't so ho-hum after ail."

He smiled against the soft underside of her breast. "Under all circumstances," he murmured, "a humorist." Taking her nipple deeply into his mouth, he gentled his knee into the quilt between her thighs, his hands beginning the ravishing, unsteady journey upward to her face, tracing the intricate weave of bone and muscle beneath the thin fabric of her fevered skin. The movements of her body were hard and restless under his, her face, wreathed in damp curls, turning from side to side on the quilt. Dusty filtered light brightened the sheen of moisture on her eyelashes and on her swollen coral-colored lips.

Catching her chin, he held her still to receive his kiss, gently swaying her face with his hand to vary the shape of their contact, penetrating her thoroughly with his tongue. Distraught whimpers fluttered from her throat, and her small hands twined around him as his lips formed the words "I love you, I love you" in a rough convulsive whisper against her burning mouth and he parted her thighs with gentle caresses. And then, gathering her slight body into the safe harbor of his arms, he eased himself into her melting warmth.

An act of love, done in love. He had never experienced it, and its miracle cascaded through him as though it were the unseen resonance of some great carillon. Little thrilling arias sang in undiscovered nerves. For him, for this moment, all senses slept except the sense of exquisite wonder at the joy she was to him. He wasn't aware that his eyes were closed until a small sound came to him from some brilliantly colored void beneath him.

Opening his eyes, he looked down through many layers of iridescent love-gauze into hot bluebell eyes, pearly skin, and a panting, slightly open mouth that held an expression that he could only call—oh, dear God, he could only call it disgruntled. Love, pity, and-—regrettably—amusement came to him in a roseate flood. Flaying the threatening laughter brutally into submission, he thought,
No, Lord, no
—
don't let me laugh at her. She's so proud.
In this as in all moments she had that absurdly guileless dignity that had managed to touch his heart from the very beginning. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but with body and mind free-floating in a honey bath of sensation, it was not easy to be promptly coherent. A sweat-tipped tendril danced at her temple under the erratic flow of his breath, and he brought a hand to her face to touch it back with his fingers, wondering how much of the aching tenderness that was twisting his heart was showing in his smile.

"Why are you still?" she said, as though her anxiety had forced her to speak.

He connected in a softly unfocused way with the frown in her eyes. "To help you, little one. 1 won't"—he stopped, to consume a gasping breatli—"move until you've had time. Are you— Dearest love, have I hurt you?"

"Well—yes." The voice was small and glum. "I liked your hand better."'

This time he had no choice but to bury his silent laughter against her shoulder. When he could trust himself to speak, he said, "Don't despair, sapphire eyes. I hope"—a long, uncontrollable shiver of passion passed through him—"presently to be able to make things better for you."

“Hope?"

Irresistible laughter swallowed him again. "1 only have instinct, dear one. I've never been anyone's first lover before." As soon as the words were out, he could hardly believe he'd said them. The appalling reference to experiences past, and at such a moment—the utter confusion of his bliss was the only thing he could think of to account for such tactlessness; but studying her in dismayed^concern, he discovered that his words seemed to have pleased her.

The dazzling color of her cheeks enclosed a lopsided smile that was just sardonic enough to fascinate him. Pushing her soft nose into the nerve center of his palm, stroking him with her open lips, she said softly, "Instinct?"

His fingers stroked her nose and lips while with his free hand he resettled her body beneath him, keeping himself deeply in her. Bringing her mouth to meet his, letting his hand drift to her throat and lower, he whispered, "Love, together we can find where the clouds are born."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

One of the kittens had come during the night, waking Devon when it climbed his hair with struggling clawholds, padding across his shoulder to his chest. He lifted his hand absently to stroke its plump, furry body, and the kitten turned once, in a circle, batting his cheek with its tail, and then settled in a lump under his chin. In the absolute silence its purr seemed loud. Below, with her head nested in the hollow below his shoulder, Merry slept on.

She had fallen asleep soon after their lovemaking, while their bodies were still tangled together like bright ribbands on May Day, and he was murmuring love words to her, trying to find some way to tell her that she had entered his soul like sunlight.

The soft-dying day had crept under the thatch eaves to glaze the shadows in thin jewellike colors. Swallows twittered in the skies overhead, and hedge crickets bantered with the dusk; and as he had drawn his young wife's sleeping body under the folds of the quilt he had wondered why men asked more of life than this. Gazing down into the helpless oblivion on her face, he had seen her again as she had been at the crest of her rapture. The fierce sweetness of it had possessed him so totally that he couldn't remember when or even whether he had reached his own fulfillment. He savored the jubilant emotions for a long time before he slept.