The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 15

"Very well." He rose, and helped her to her feet. Why did touching his hand always seem to shock her right between her legs?

She'd never felt anything like that. He swung her cloak around her, and picked his up along with his coat and carried it over his arm. He grabbed the candelabrum. "Let's go." "Are you going to leave the hamper?"

"Think of it as a gift for Brendal and his chere wife."

He took her hand and led her onward. Her hand in his felt small, protected. Danger! a voice shouted inside her. Don't do this.

She pressed it down and followed Avignon. "We will eschew his public apartments. He didn't live there, at least not for very long."

He led her up the stairs into a cozy room lined with cupboards of some dark wood, a porcelain bath painted with scenes, a bed with a brocaded coverlet. It was really rather comfortable. Not what she expected.

"This is rather nice."

"As the dressing room of a king should be."

This was a dressing room? It was three times as big as her bedroom at Madame LaFleur's house had been. He opened a door onto a huge room that looked like a receiving salon, then thought better of it and tried another door.

"Yes, here it is."

She stopped, stock-still.

"Oh, my."

This room was gigantic. The ceiling was carved and adorned with painting. Red and gold brocade hangings lined the walls. There was an ornate dressing table, several wardrobes in the rococo style, a gaping fireplace with an ornately carved marble mantel and great golden andirons. Chairs lined the walls as though the king held audiences here. Dominating the room, a huge bed, ornately carved and heavy, sat on a raised dais hung with so much gold braiding and red fringed draperies it looked as though it were a room in itself. Everywhere rich carpets, gold-threaded brocades, s.h.i.+ny satins, and the rich gleam of wood gave the room a kind of heavy magnificence that was enough to weigh one down.

"This is the king's bedroom." Avignon came to stand behind her as she stared at the bed. He held the candelabrum high. His voice was deep and bittersweet, like the cup of chocolate she'd had with pet.i.t dejeuner the first morning in his house.

She knew what might happen there. And she ruthlessly suppressed the fear that threatened to close her throat. She was not dear Lady Toumoult. She would not die having never experienced anything. Having never experienced this. It was an adventure and she would have it. It needn't be more.

Eleven.

Henri looked down at that wondrous combination of innocence and experience in her eyes, shocked that what she wanted was so clearly writ there. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose and fell against her bodice-so near to escape it made him unaccountably nervous. He'd been holding her hand as he led her up the stairs. He should never have done that. His Companion screamed for life, sending blood careering from around his body to the one place that didn't need more. His body wanted her. He'd had a thousand women want him. Why was this one any different?

Maybe because the women had all fallen into one of two categories. Either they were attracted by his power and his money alone-grasping creatures out to get what they could from him. Or they were innocents ensorcelled by his attractive vampire sense of life, only to be frightened by what they had unleashed, even if they never realized truly what he was.

An image of an innocent girl, driven to suicide by horror of him, blood blooming on her breast, made him swallow hard. He pushed it down. He didn't dally with innocents.

But this one was not innocent. He had seen her experience in her eyes when she caught him at his bath, when she so accurately described the failure of heart that long life engendered in one. And yet she still had hope. He could see it almost glowing around her at times. She'd searched the prison for her friend, refusing to give up. She was determined to look for a situation when it was hopeless and anyone else would have cast herself as a courtesan or worse long ago.

He searched her face. He saw no young coquette seducing him without a notion of what that meant. She knew. He could see it in her eyes. They were filled with a hot eagerness, laced with world-weariness. He found it infinitely attractive. So much so that if she looked down right now, instead of so boldly into his eyes, she would see something he was now quite sure would not surprise her. How long had it been since he had wanted a woman like this? He couldn 't count the years. Just the resurgence of interest made him feel as though the world still held possibilities for him. She need never know what he was. It could be a liaison like any of his others, and not that emotionally charged disaster so long ago that had ended in death for a girl who would rather end her life than spend another instant of it with a monster.

Except it couldn't be a liaison like his others.

He tore his gaze from hers. "You are my ward, have you forgotten?" Jesus and his Mother, how could he have thought to seduce her? He was her protector, even from himself.

"No, your grace."

Was she playing games of ambiguity? "No, you haven't forgotten?"

"No, I'm not your ward, your grace." She took the candelabrum and set it on an inlaid chest next to the great bed.

"Don't call me that." He couldn't help but snap with his b.a.l.l.s so tight and his c.o.c.k straining at his breeches. "There is nothing of grace about me."

She smiled. It was a knowing smile. "Henri, then, if you prefer."

He did not. But she'd trapped him. He found himself grinding his teeth. "You are my ward, whether you acknowledge it or not."

He should put his coat on again. What was he doing in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves? And why had he let her set down the candelabrum as though they were going to stay here? In a bedroom? That smile again, d.a.m.n her. He would have been ready to swear she was a virgin yesterday, but now ...

"A fiction and you know it. I am more than of age. Almost a spinster. With no prospects but that a very dull shopkeeper might one day offer for me. Not an exciting future."

He turned away and ran his hand over his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry. "I am your protector. You have a right to rely on me, and that means ... certain things."

"You shock me. The devil has a sense of honor." He felt her hand on his arm. The shock they were both really talking about went straight to his loins. She turned him toward her. Did he have a sense of honor? He cultivated the image of Satan. How long until one became a devil in truth? He gambled and wh.o.r.ed and ... but not with this girl.

She ran her hands over his chest. "Your honor is misplaced. I'm of age. You would be doing me a great service."

What was she saying? He couldn't think when she touched him like that. He could only feel her palms burning his chest even through his waistcoat. He'd been alone so long, regardless of his liaisons. She offered a moment of intimacy with someone who might be a kindred spirit in some small way, and that moment, like a fragile candle flame flickering against the darkness, might give him heart enough to go on. If his liaisons had not been satisfying lately, it might be because the women all seemed sly and greedy.

This girl was neither. She was dangerous. She would fall in love with his vampire attraction. No one knew him for himself. Neither would she.

But that was good, wasn't it? That would make it a liaison like any other, after all.

She stepped into him, where he stood rigid with indecision, and turned her face up, expectant. "Tomorrow it will all be over. I will expect nothing of you. Tonight I want to know what it is like to have the wicked duc make love to me. Is that so wrong?"

She wouldn't love him. She was cynical enough to know that. In some ways that freed him. She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his. He was lost.

He ran his hands around her and pulled her in against his body. The feel of the length of her pressed against him sent antic.i.p.ation through him that seemed tremulous with hope. He had just enough restraint to avoid taking her mouth like some kind of pirate. He kissed her forehead. An achievement. And her nose. That wouldn't frighten her. Her heart beat against his chest. It wasn't in fear.

She raised her lips and he couldn't help but kiss them. She opened to him immediately, soft as his approach was, and her tongue came seeking into his mouth.

G.o.d in His heaven, she was not new to kissing. He twined his tongue with hers. Kissing had never felt so intimate. Their bodies shared precious moisture and warmth. More than warmth, heat. Her slender body in his arms felt so fragile. He could crush her without thinking, so he was careful, so careful. With difficulty, he pulled away. This was the last question a man should ask. But he asked it anyway. "Where did you learn to kiss like that?"

She blinked in surprise. It was a very direct question. But then her look turned puzzled. "I ... I really don't know."

Was that puzzlement feigned? It didn't seem so. Just like she knew about brandy, she knew about kissing.

She smiled at him. "But I suspect you are just the man to show me more."

G.o.d help him. Holding her in his arms like this, feeling her fragile body throbbing against his, his experience making love to women seemed irrelevant. Could making love ever be new again for him? That would be a gift beyond price. He mustn't expect it.

He felt almost awed, a little frightened of what might happen here.

She raised her brows at him, her breath warm over his lips. "Show me?"

He felt a growl coming up from his belly. He was on fire. He was frightened. And he was helpless. He brought his lips to hers and let his growl into her mouth. Then he was consumed.

Francoise wondered for an instant what beast she had unleashed here. Henri kissed her with a ferocity that sent a thrill of fear through her. That fear was delightful, so different than all the other fears that had consumed her lately. She was about to experience all Lady Toumoult never had. She wouldn't think about tomorrow. After tonight, the deluge. She didn't care.

Her hands slid up his arms as his tongue searched her mouth. The bunched muscles in his upper arms under the fine-gauge linen s.h.i.+rt were a revelation. She pressed herself to the hardness of his body, enveloped by the scent of cinnamon and ... ambergris, that's what that sweet smell was, and the male musk of need. The vibrating life she always felt emanating from him seemed to cycle up some scale until she could hardly think. She was carried away by the force of him and by her own desire.

A hard ridge pressed against her abdomen as he ravished her mouth. Oh, the duc was delightfully wicked. And she wanted to experience all of him.

He was kissing down her throat now. She felt vulnerable as she tilted her chin up. He kissed her collarbone, the rise of her breast. Her heart knocked about inside her without any rhythm at all. "I want to see you naked again," she murmured into his hair.

Its scent was redolent of night and sensuality. Maybe that was why she had been bold enough to say such a thing.

"And so you shall," he said. He bent and let his lips pull at the edge of her neckline. Her nipple popped free and he sent his tongue swirling around it. She sucked in a breath. How did he create such sensation? He freed her other breast with one hand and caressed its nipple too. The place between her legs swelled almost painfully.

She had almost forgotten her demand when he raised his head and said with a sinful grin, "But only if you're naked too."

Naked? With this complicated dress?

"Don't worry. I know something about women's clothing." He had read her mind. And before she could say more, he was feeling for the ties on her skirts. She was soon stepping out of them, even as he untied her sleeves. The feel of his hands kept her humming inside. She kicked off her slippers and stood in chemise and her bodice.

"I'm ahead of you," she said with mock severity, trying to mask her uncertainty. What if he was disappointed in her? What if her ignorance let him down? "And ... and I asked first."

He suppressed a smile. "You're right. Turnabout is fair play." Stepping back, he unb.u.t.toned his embroidered waistcoat and pulled out his s.h.i.+rt. He untied his cravat and tossed it away as he too kicked off his buckled shoes. He pulled his s.h.i.+rt over his head.

She bit her lips. Oh, she did like to see his naked chest; the muscles, the curling dark hair. She had wanted to touch him that day in his bath and had been horrified by her desire. She wasn't horrified now. She found herself moving toward him without ever having decided to do so. Her hand reached out of its own accord. She felt him staring at her but her own eyes were only for his body. She placed her palm over his right breast, smoothing the crinkly hair, feeling the soft nipple peak. She rubbed the nipple with her thumb. He had kissed her nipples, and as he said, "turnabout." She only had to lean in a little bit to let her tongue dart out and lick them. Slightly salty, pebbly to the touch.

He cleared his throat. She didn't think it was because he had anything to say. She ran both hands down over the ribs of muscle to his belly, then over the hard rod of flesh under his breeches.

He took her shoulders, breathing raggedly. Without a word he turned her about to unlace her bodice. It dropped to the floor and he turned her again to pull her chemise over her head.

She was naked before him, except for her stockings and garters. She had never been naked in a man's presence before. She'd always been self-conscious about her appearance. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were perhaps less fulsome than was fas.h.i.+onable. One could only call her short. But suddenly that didn't make any difference. Her hesitancy melted away. Some part of her now knew she was desirable. Let him look his fill. He was looking, even as he bent to unbuckle his breeches at the knee. He looked as he worked the b.u.t.tons at the waistband. His black, wicked eyes were burning. In a moment she would see his naked manhood, fully aroused.

Once that prospect would have been frightening. Not now.

She felt her eyes widen as he pushed his breeches, his smalls, and his stockings down in one motion and stepped out of them.

Well, that was impressive.

His eyes narrowed. "Have you ever seen a man ... in this state before?"

"No." She shook her head. Had she? "Yes."

He didn't ask her which it was, which was good since she couldn't have explained it. Instead he turned his back, revealing round, muscled b.u.t.tocks and broad shoulders. His skin was the same pale marble perfection all over his body as though he had never seen the sun. She swallowed. He went to the king's great bed and pulled back the red gilt brocade in great swaths. The bed was just as it had been left, with clean white linen on it. He took the pillows from their elaborate covers. When he turned back to her, a pillow cover, casually held, covered his erection. Now he was the one who seemed hesitant. Had she ever seen the wicked duc hesitant?

If he thought he'd frightened her he'd never go through with it. She was suddenly certain he had that much honor and that much self-control, though she never would have believed it a week ago. She walked over to him as calmly as she could, her eyes never leaving his, and tossed the glittering pillow sham on the floor.

"Don't you dare have second thoughts," she whispered, cupping the nape of his neck. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushed his chest. "Because I don't." She turned her face up to be kissed. She floated along with the gleaming silver specks floating in the blackness of his eyes.

He let out a breath he had apparently been holding. Then he smiled. That smile was so sad, so careworn. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss it away. What good was it to be the wicked duc if you couldn't be fierce and devil-may-care? It was as if he had been wearing the mask of a wicked duc all along and only now had she glimpsed the man behind the facade.

Slowly, his arms came around her. But instead of holding her to his body, he lifted her up and turned to place her on the high bed behind him. "You won't be sorry," he breathed. "I'll make sure you're never sorry."

He couldn't do that of course. Some little voice inside Francoise said that she was likely to be sorry indeed for all this. But she shut the door on the little voice. Henri crawled up into the gigantic bed beside her. He settled in beside her, his brain engaged once again. He had made love to women so many times in his life that repet.i.tion made the experience fade into gray history. For the first time in countless years, he wanted to make this special. For her. But how experienced was she? Dare he use his mouth on her? Or had she merely kissed Robert, the servant next door?

He would go slowly, feeling his way, so to speak. As long as he could hold himself. Lord, he was like a schoolboy, the pressure inside him ready to make him spurt. What good was all his experience if it didn't make him capable of controlling his body?

He leaned in to kiss her, his hand sliding over her delicate shoulders. She ran her palm over his back and down to cup his b.u.t.tocks. She squeezed. Not shy. And then, while he kissed his way down her throat to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she ran her small hand over his hip and found his c.o.c.k. She grasped the throbbing shaft and slid her thumb along the vein on the underside to the sensitive crown.

He groaned over the breast he was suckling, struggling for control. She found the drop of moisture at the opening unerringly and smoothed it over the head. "Francoise, you'll end it too soon," he gasped.

She opened her eyes wide. "You wouldn't let that happen, would you?"

Thank the heavens, she let go of his c.o.c.k as he pushed her gently onto her back and suckled at her breast. At least he knew his way. This woman was as experienced as the most hardened courtesan he had ever tumbled. He could employ his entire repertoire to please her.

Francoise could hardly think as he turned his attention to the other breast. But why would one want to think when one could feel all that sensation driving straight from her nipple to the center of her body? His mouth, wet and sensuous on her breast, was a revelation. She could feel the slickness on her thighs. Henri parted them gently with one hand, and then put his palm over her mound. She couldn't help but grind against it. Wasn't one supposed to lie pa.s.sive as a man had his way? Lady Toumoult had intimated as much when she talked about "the marriage act." But Francoise couldn't control her hips when Henri slipped one finger inside her folds. He rubbed along some spot that suddenly sent shocks of the most intense pleasure through her. That was the most exquisite feeling she'd ever known. And he kept doing it. Her hips moved in counterpoint of their own volition. She found her hands wound into hair that had somehow come loose from its queue and now spread out over his shoulders. It gleamed in the flickering light from the candelabrum set on the ornate chest behind him. The feeling in her woman parts was relentless-a promise or a threat of something yet to come. She couldn't get her breath.

But she wasn't relieved when he removed his hand. She longed for that exquisite torture. He slid down her body, kissing and licking as he went until he lay with his shoulders between her thighs, and she was open to him. The feeling subsided to a tingle. She writhed on the sheets, not sure what she wanted, but knowing that she wanted more.

"G.o.d, but you're beautiful, Francoise," he said. He said it reluctantly as though he didn't have a choice. And that made her feel powerful. So she didn't mind being open to him when he parted her nether lips with his fingers. She might be open, but that openness commanded him.

What he did next made her gasp in surprise. What was he doing with ... with his mouth? Ohhhhhh. She craned to see. Should she be letting him do this? But she didn't want it to stop.

G.o.d, but he's good, isn't he?

The voice inside her was so clear, so wistful. But she didn't have time to answer because Henri was licking and ... And, dear Lord, now he was sucking. And sliding his tongue right into her. Lady Toumoult had no idea about this kind of thing, Francoise was sure. She was also fairly certain it was a sin. It felt too good to be anything less. And then that promise of even more to come got stronger and stronger. What Henri was doing became less important than that all-encompa.s.sing sensation was.h.i.+ng over her, making her hips lift in supplication for whatever was to come. She could hear herself moaning as from a distance.

And then something else entirely happened. The sensation was suddenly so intense it seemed unrelated to the earlier pleasure.

She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut. She might have moaned or even shouted. Her head buzzed.

Breathe!

Everything in her body shattered.

The sensation slowly subsided, like a tidal wave being sucked back into an ocean. She'd just had an o.r.g.a.s.m. How did she know that? Were they always like that?

No, they aren't. The voice was almost a sigh of resignation.

But she didn't feel resigned at all. That was wonderful.

Henri slid up beside her and held her. She opened her eyes. She couldn't help but grin. She must look like a loon to him.

He smiled in return. It was smug. "Did you like that?"

She nodded, trying to control her mouth. "Pretty much." Where had that come from? It was a strange turn of phrase. Though that experience might indeed be called "pretty." "I mean yes, very much." She was so glad she'd decided to push for what she wanted tonight. And kisses had turned out to be only the beginning. "But what about you?" she asked, feeling suddenly shy. His shaft still lay, hard and throbbing, along her thigh. "We're getting to that." He turned her chin up with one finger and kissed her again, deeply. She felt warm and wet and even more sensitive and open to his kisses. She tasted something slightly salty in his kiss and realized that must be what she tasted like.

Not ... not a bad taste. It spoke of men and women together.