Uncertain Magic Page 9

  Roddy accepted that, too, and their fingers touched in passing. His eyes met hers. He smiled.

  Roddy smiled back, shyly.

  She looked down immediately, but the brief contact had been reassuring. If she could smile at him, surely she could take the next step. It was like crossing a stream on a fallen log—the more nervous she felt, the harder the task would become. She took a deep breath and made herself relax enough to face the boiled pudding.

  He uncovered a roast duck after she had finished half the pudding. It was odd to be eating without footmen to carve and serve, but she was glad of the change. It saved her the strain of keeping up appearances in front of strangers. Faelan served, after a fashion, by slicing a bite of fowl and crisp skin, and offering it to her on the two prongs of his own black-handled fork.

  Roddy looked uncertainly at the tidbit. He waited, and after a moment, she did as he seemed to expect: took it gingerly into her mouth from his fork.

  He made a low sound, a kind of masculine purr of approval from deep in his throat. It seemed to vibrate along Roddy’s spine, and she swallowed the bit of duck too fast. She groped for her wine, and took a gulp. When she emerged from behind the goblet, another bite of duck was waiting for her.

  Roddy took that one, too. And the next. The fire popped and hissed. Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap, clasping and unclasping. Something in the simple act of accepting food from his hand hinted at deeper things: yielding on levels not so safe and simple. The room seemed to be growing hot. The duck disappeared, shared in this intimate way, and then he pared an apple and cut it into neat cubes. Not even the fork intervened then: the fruit passed from his fingers directly to her lips. His thumb brushed her cheek. The touch seemed incidental, but his eyes were half closed and his mouth curved faintly upward as he offered her another bite.

  The intensity of his look disturbed her. She turned away a little, refusing. The goblet of wine was a welcome relief against her heated skin: the cool metal, and the liquid slipping down her throat.

  He touched her cheek. With a light, steady pressure, he made her face him again, and she set down the goblet with reluctance. She would not look up; she focused stubbornly on the bite of apple, as if that might make the disturbing figure behind it disappear. She closed her eyes and took the fruit, wanting anything that might cool the warmth that suffused her face. The juice ran sweet and chill on her tongue, mingling with the mustier taste of burgundy as she swallowed. Then there was another taste, another feeling—a shock as his hands gently cupped her cheeks and his lips closed over hers.

  His tongue slipped between her teeth, seeking the apple-rich flavor that lingered there. Roddy stiffened, raising her arms as if to push him away, and found in the confusion of the moment that they only curved around his shoulders instead. She felt very queer, light-headed and heavy at the same time, so that her hands seemed too much to lift once they came to rest against his neck.

  He drew his open palm down the column of her throat, bending to follow the touch with kisses. She held her breath. Her hands closed reflexively, kneading the powerful muscles beneath his robe, and he made another low sound of approval.

  In the candlelight, his black hair had taken on glints of red and gold. It brushed her cheek and lips softly, as soft as his fingers as they slid around her neck and worked the fastenings at the back of her gown. Each satin button came free with a tiny tug, down and down, until his hand had reached her hips and the gown hung open the length of her spine.

  “Sweet,” he murmured against her throat. “Sweet wife.” His fingers slid beneath the gown and moved lightly on her skin, warm in the chill air. Panic flooded her. She arched her back, trying to retreat, and found her breast pressed against his hard shoulder like an offering. She jerked away and sat up stiffly, breathing in frantic little gusts.

  He let her go. The slight smile had left his face; he leaned back in his chair and gazed at her, with a faintly quizzical look. “You’re afraid of me,” he said.

  Roddy bowed her head in misery. Yes, yes—she was afraid. She knew her duty; she tried to be brave, and yet when he touched her like that it seemed that her body was no longer her own. This stranger, this man whose mind was closed to her; he made her muscles hot and weak just by looking at her. He could control her. She could feel it, though he did not exercise the power yet.

  He moved away a little and turned back to the table, pouring himself another goblet of wine. He took a sip, watching her over the rim.

  She wet her lips. “I suppose you think I’m being ridiculous.”

  “Not at all.” He set the goblet down. “I pride myself on my ability to terrify children. Are you going to cry?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh.” He sighed. “That’s usually the best part.”

  Roddy sat up with dignity. “Pray do not laugh at me.”

  His lips twisted only slightly. She stared with narrowed eyes at the offending mouth, daring him to break into a smile. After a moment, the peculiar tightness left his lips and he returned her look with perfect gravity. “We seem to have reached an impasse,” he said. “I fear I shall have to ravish you.”

  Roddy looked down.

  “It’s really rather fun,” he said. “I predict you’ll like it.”

  She bit her lips.

  “As long as you don’t giggle,” he added. “It’s considered quite a faux pas at such a moment.”

  Roddy stood up abruptly and turned her back, finding it necessary to avert her face. She shoved her loosened gown up onto her shoulder.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said. “You have a very pretty back.”

  She felt like a row of bowling pins, being knocked down one by one. The gentleness in his voice was devastating, but his demon-smile meant nothing. Just so he might have smiled at one of those gentlemen’s daughters he’d accused himself of ruining, and for that look the girl would have given away her body, her soul…everything she had. Roddy could understand that. The pull was something beyond reason. Only her doubt, her knowing so well that a face could hide the intent beneath, kept her from melting into him like a snowflake into fire. She could not read faces, not without her gift to aid her. But the lure was stronger than the doubt. Far stronger.

  “Don’t,” she said when she heard him move, and the word came out harsh with her own confusion.

  There was a silence behind her, a void she could not fathom. At last, he said, “You’re making me wonder, little girl. Do you have some reason to avoid your husband’s touch?”

  Roddy stiffened. She gripped her hands together. “You know what I’m afraid of. It’s just that I’ve never…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve never…you know.”

  “Never?”

  The skepticism in his voice mocked her. She whirled on him. “Of course not.”

  His eyes met hers, a shock of chilly blue. “You’ve never been with Geoff?”

  “No,” she cried. “Whatever makes you say such a—”

  He was on his feet. He caught her to him before the furious words were out of her mouth. “Shh,” he murmured. “Hush. I’m sorry.”

  Roddy stood stiff in his arms. “That was unkind,” she said to his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. His voice seemed strained. He bent his head, pressing his cheek to her hair. “I suppose I’ve never been jealous before.”

  A funny tight place curled in her middle. “Jealous,” she whispered. Her fingers moved uncertainly in the folds of his robe. “Of me?”

  He did not answer. He held her tighter. She missed her talent with unprecedented fierceness.

  “I’ve never been with anyone,” she said. “Not like this.”

  He groaned, rocking her softly in his arms. “Forget I said it.”

  She laced her hands together behind his back, tentatively allowing her weight to rest against him, and spoke into the muffling robe. “It’s what everyone else thinks—that I had to marry, and it made no difference whom.”

  “It’s not
important.”

  “It is.” She bent her head, staring down at the play of light and shadow in the entwining folds of their robes. “What you think is important.”

  “Ah, Roddy,” he said in a hollow voice. “I’m only a man. I can’t see why you’ve done this—thrown yourself away on me. I’ve tried to think of reasons; I’ve tried every logic I can imagine, and it all comes down to one. God knows, I’ll be happy enough with another answer if you can give it to me.”

  “I need you,” she said simply. “And you need me. There’s nothing more.”

  His harsh breath ruffled her hair. “Sweet Jesus…an innocent. Don’t you know, little girl, that whatever you say can be proved or disproved before this night is over?”

  Roddy had a general idea of what he meant, from Jane’s disturbing thoughts. There was pain involved, Roddy was certain of that: the memory of sharp, tearing hurt from the maid’s mind was what had frightened Roddy most of all. But then, how often had Jane gone into wailing hysterics at a scratch that Roddy hardly noticed? People were different. Jane was a lady’s maid, not a girl who’d grown up falling off horses and out of trees and into ice-cold streams all her life.

  Roddy lifted her face, looking steadily into his eyes. “I know it.”

  He turned his head, staring into the shadows with a baffled grimace. “I’m half afraid to find out.” He looked back at her, and the grimace deepened to a sneer. “Behold, the libertine—unmanned by the chance that his wife’s a virgin. I suppose if you’re pure, I shall have to abandon my chivalric fantasy of saving a lady in distress.” He shook his head. “And even if you’re telling me the truth, no one else will believe it. Any child of ours who arrives in the next ninemonth will be labeled a bastard.”

  Roddy stiffened. She whispered, “No,” but the word was weak with her sudden realization that his prediction was all too accurate.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. He brushed a wisp of gold back from her cheek. “What did you expect, little one? That the world would be any more trusting than your own husband? I was willing—” He paused, and looked hard at her. “I still am willing, if all this pretty innocence is some ill-advised play at gammoning me, to recognize any child you carry as my own. I’ll kill the man who calls me a liar, but no one will be so stupid as to say it to my face. My delightful reputation as an executioner protects you that far, but it won’t bridle loose tongues behind our backs.”

  The calm way he stated his violent promise made her fingers tighten nervously together. She said stumblingly, “Perhaps I won’t—perhaps we won’t—”

  “Have a child so soon?” He raised one dark brow, and murmured, “Perhaps not.” His hand slid down her back, where the unbuttoned gown still parted beneath his touch. Roddy felt his body tauten as he bent to nuzzle her hair. “But I plan to give the matter some attention.”

  She held her breath as his lips moved softly, bringing a melting heat to life in her loins. Slowly, tentatively, she allowed her weight to rest against him. It felt so good; so very good to stand there pressed against his solid, living warmth. She did not want him to go away. Not now.

  “I suppose I must seem very strange, to want to marry you,” she whispered.

  “Very,” he said.

  “Don’t all the ladies find you irresistible?” She was only half teasing.

  He stroked her hair, pressing her closer to him. “They’ve generally stopped short of the ultimate sacrifice.”

  Roddy refrained from asking him if he had forgotten all those hapless gentlemen’s daughters. The more she knew him, the more she questioned their existence. They were rumors. Silly, vicious, stupid rumors, made up by idle minds in malice. He could not have hurt anyone, this man who smiled and touched her with such aching gentleness.

  She drew a circle with the flat of her palm on his shoulder. “My lord,” she said hesitantly. “Shall you ring for the servants?”

  It was surrender, that shy suggestion, and his slow smile said he knew it. He reached out without letting her go and pulled the bellrope beside the mantel.

  When the domestics arrived a moment later to remove the dishes, Roddy was seated demurely in a chair, and Faelan stood with one shoulder against the mantel, gazing down into the flames as if a particularly fascinating scene lay illuminated there. The stout maid fumbled with the dishes, preoccupied with hefting her heavy tray and estimating how late the innkeeper might want her in the kitchen. Before she left, the door opened again, to admit the innkeeper himself, bearing a cut-crystal spirit decanter and one glass on a silver salver. Without lifting his eyes to either of his guests, he arranged the tray on the table and shepherded the maid out ahead of him.

  The fire sent red highlights through the amber liquid as Faelan poured for himself. Roddy watched, curious and edgy. Between four grown brothers and her gift, she thought she should have known more of these things, of what was to happen next, but in truth all she had gleaned from the pantry was a confused blur of excitement and hungry, uncivilized pleasure. Such currents—such enticing, alarming power: when she looked at Faelan she wanted to submit, and when she looked away she did not.

  His movements were insanely slow as he replaced the stopper and lifted the glass. Over the rim, he looked at her, and Roddy’s throat went dry.

  The glass sparked in the light as he set it down. “Come here,” he said. His voice was hypnotic. Roddy felt the pull of it, the sensuality that hung tantalizing around him like a fog. She obeyed without thought, without conscious effort: one moment sitting primly in the chair, and the next standing before him like a captive pawn.

  He smiled, a lazy glitter, and touched her lower lip with his forefinger. Her tongue moved instinctively to catch the drop of liquid he left there, and encountered the burning sweet taste of sherry. He bent to her, followed the trace of her tongue with his, invading a little and withdrawing. As she stood with her lips parted, he anointed them again with sherry, outlining their shape with the tip of his finger and then the warm sweep of his tongue. He drew a tiny circle of sherry on the soft skin below her ear, and Roddy found it increasingly hard to breathe as he followed the droplet with flickering kisses.

  She moved restlessly when he straightened, glancing up to find that he had lifted the glass of sherry again. He did not sip at it. Instead he grasped her hand and guided the tip of her finger into the cool liquid. Roddy caught the hint instantly, but she stood still, not quite able to translate thought into action.

  He waited, holding the glass steadily under her hand. Roddy cast down her eyes and then raised them. Looking straight ahead, she was on a level with the open collar of his shirt. She stared at him a long time, seeing his even breath and the beat of his pulse. Slowly she lifted her hand and touched the shadowed hollow at the base of his throat. When her finger came away, a clear drop hung there, begging to be collected. She leaned forward, and scooped up the liquid with the tip of her tongue. He tasted of salt and sherry. She felt again for the glass and repeated the process, this time lingering a little to explore the flavor.

  His deep moan vibrated beneath her tongue. He raised his free hand and rested it on her hips. “Roddy,” he murmured. “Help me undress.”

  The third drop of sherry she’d transferred had begun a provocative trickle downward toward his chest. It disappeared beneath his shirt. Someone’s fingers—hers, her own—began to work at the buttons, opening them, one by one, following the errant drop lower. His skin was smooth and dark and warm in the shadows. She fumbled with the more difficult frogging on his waistcoat, pushed that and the shirt aside to find the drop of sherry vanished in a light curling fleece of black hair.

  From there, everything seemed to move under some strange force, a will outside herself, that wanted more, that wanted to see the firelight on the curve of his skin, to touch the hidden contours. She eased the robe and shirt off his shoulders, arms upraised and reaching…how tall he was, how much larger than she. Beneath her hands he was hard and soft, a contradiction that cried out for exploration. On tiptoe, she sprea
d her palms across the broad, bared skin of his shoulders, and looked up into his eyes as he stood immobile under her touch.

  He was smiling, his devil’s smile. Her own lips curled upward, fierce with new pleasure. So this was what it was, and she had been afraid.

  No longer. The shirt and robe dropped to the floor, and he stood in front of her with his body outlined in flames: beautiful, beautiful, like the tiger she’d seen once, a wild thing that patiently suffered her touch. He let her look, let her gaze and her hands drift over him, and when she stroked certain places his eyes closed, and his throat rumbled softly with that animal sound.

  She leaned over and kissed the base of his neck, tasting the lingering sting of sherry. His hand slid around her as she moved, from her hip to her buttocks, his fingers spread to press her into the unfamiliar male shape of him. He sought her mouth, not gently, forcing her body to curve and bend for him, until the loose mass of her hair brushed softly on the small of her own bare back. The taffeta gown was half fallen down, trailing off her shoulders. He let her go suddenly, moving back, and the gown dropped to her waist, held up only by his arm around her hips. There was nothing underneath, but she stood as still as he had, protected from the chill of the room by the hot flush his steady gaze brought to her breasts and throat and face.

  Would he think her pretty? She looked up into his face, hopeful and scared. Too small, too awkward and coltish—little girl, he called her, and she burned with the shame of not being good enough. She was afraid her difference showed somehow, that he would recognize it and turn away in disgust.

  And that, suddenly, was a thing she could not bear.

  “Roddy.” His voice was a low melody. “You’re lovely, little girl.”