A Kiss in the Night (19 page)

Chapter Six

A cool spring wind swept into the solar apartment through unseen cracks and ill-fitted doorways, interrupting the cloak of quiet with a soft whistle, while Linness waited impatiently for Clair to leave and shut the door. Then she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. She heard his voice in her mind as she read the bold script:

By day we are theater actors, but beneath this shallow exterior, I am made of longing. Longing for what can never be, longing for a violent transport into the glimpses of what life should have been. I see the same longing in thy eyes. Answer thy longing, my love. Tell me denial has become as awesome as death; desire has become thy life, dictating the beat and pulse of your heart. Tell me, Linness...

She read the note again and then twice more.

Glimpses of what life should have been.

She saw him every day now, many times a day. Each and every afternoon Paxton escorted her and Jean Luc on sojourns to the river, and these were the glimpses of what life should have been.

Glimpses of the family they might have been. Longing and desire were stirred by nothing more than the music of his laughter, his storytelling and wit, the intimate probe of his questions. Witnessing his natural ease and love for Jean Luc plunged her into a depth of feeling she had never known before. It was impossible now to separate the force of physical desire from the emotional, and she did not try. Every time he stepped within the circle of her vision, she felt as if she were floating, buoyed by the indescribable sensations his nearness brought her: a pounding heart, racing pulse, a fluttery feeling in her abdomen, so that her breath caught each time, her thoughts fled, her whole body felt like sparks of fire.

Glimpses of what should have been…

She constantly sought him in secret too; she could not help it. She would listen for his door opening or the sound of his boots crossing over stones. At the table his laughter would reach across the distance separating them to rush over her in a warm caress. She would watch from her window above the courtyard as Paxton parried and fought his men, his half-naked body glistening with sweat and strength. Or under the pretext of some domestic chore, she would spy through the stable doors as he returned from the fields and managed the horses, spellbound, his every movement and gesture a source of endless fascination.

She crushed the note in her hand. Each beat of her heart echoed in her ears, shattering the silence, each labored breath seemed to demand conscious will, and she felt fear. Enormous fear. Nightmarish scenarios of witnessing Paxton's death played through her mind. She saw Morgan's rage, his pain, his revenge; Morgan's knights rushing at Paxton to execute his death. And 'twould be her death too; Paxton was her heart and, therefore, her life. Her very life.

She began pacing the floor. Did he not understand where their forbidden love would end? That to have her once was the first step on the journey to hell? To have him once was to want him always; one night of love would lead to another and another, desire and love growing each and every time until—

They were caught. Until Paxton died.

These thoughts wove a dark and menacing cloud about her. Could she fight him? Could she resist the temptation of his solitary presence in this room?

She closed her eyes and imagined the scene that would transpire. She imagined all the tension exploding at the feel of his lips upon hers. A kiss of salvation and damnation both. She imagined falling against the pillows and his hard, warm flesh coming over her body. She imagined being bathed in fire and washed in chills...

'Twas the path that led to death. The darkness of a world where he no longer breathed. And she felt herself sinking into this dark night, falling in the fires of certain hell.

‘
Twas so unfair, so terribly cruel.

Yet the maddening tease of Paxton's presence in her life drew her closer and closer to the flame he offered. It frightened her, more as it seemed his every look and movement promised what was to come.

Until the dark hours of night, like now, as she lay tormented and waiting for him, and as the hours stretched and gathered into the night; her thirst for his salvation mounting and growing with each breath. She thought she was going mad; sometimes knew she was going mad.

Then, like a capricious wind, the madness became fear. She felt the steely talons sinking into her. Warning her. Darkness waited just behind the salvation he offered.

Paxton, leave me before it is too late.

She had to stop thinking about him; she had to!

She looked to her table where her wood carvings waited. She rose at once and headed out the door.

* * * *

Paxton lay in his bed. 'Twas the hour of enchantment, the bewitching hour. A half dozen candles and two lanterns illuminated the precious manuscript spread before him. Soft footsteps sounded, footsteps that belonged to a woman of grace and elegance. Linness's footsteps.

Where would she be going at this hour?

He rose quietly and made his way out the door. Torchlight lit the stairway and he caught a brief glance of her dark gray skirts swirling behind her as she walked down, lantern in hand. He followed quietly. The whole chateau was still and quiet with sleep. He had realized she had irregular sleeping habits, especially since his private war with her had begun. He might awaken to hear her pacing hours after midnight, then discover her awake at dawn. She might retire with the sunlight or sleep past the tenth bell. She was restless with unease.

None more than I, my love.

He followed her through the hall and into the kitchen. She stopped suddenly, stiffening with fear before turning to look behind her. Paxton ducked into the shadows as she held her lantern up high to cast its illumination.

With more caution, Linness continued to the cellar storeroom. Tomorrow was Jean Luc's birthday. She needed a cup of oil to put the finishing shine on the statuettes.

She needed to get her mind off
him.

She descended the small, wide stone stairway to the bottom. She held up the lantern, flooding the shelves of foodstuffs with light, all of it attesting to the wealth of Gaillard: sacks of oatmeal, barley, and flour, dried ham, smoked beef, expensive imported salmon, venison, cod, two barrels filled with green and tart spring apples, onions, a butter churn half-full, pickled herring in small tubs, hemp maize, bags of duck, geese, and hen feathers, drying herbs, tubs of almonds. Two shelves were lined with all of Vivian's cooking spices: mustard, salt, pepper, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, cloves, and many others. Far up on the uppermost shelf, among various odds and ends, sat the scented oil.

She breathed deeply of the pungent mix of scents as she set the lantern on the shelf to reach up for the oil jar. A slight sound made her spin round. She gasped as a mouse scurried across the floor, disappearing into the pile of sheep fleeces in the corner. Washed in a wave of strange relief, she turned back to the shelves.

Hiding in the shadows, Paxton could only wonder at the unending lure of her beauty. Two pearl-handled combs held the long hair back; it fell in rivers of curls down her back, its rich color contrasting dramatically with the dark gray of her skirts. Her face was pale and circles underlined her eyes, yet this did nothing to offset her beauty. The dark gray gown laced tightly in front over a white cotton chemise, its long, loose sleeves gathered at her small wrists.

He soundlessly stepped forward until he stood directly behind her. He let his lips lightly graze the nape of her neck where he drew deeply of the perfume of her skin. He felt her spine tremble; the jar dropped with a soft clamor to the rush-covered stone floor and she spun around with a gasp. "Paxton!"

"Linness…”

He stood so close, so terribly, terribly close. Her eyes searched the handsome features of his face. A day's growth of beard gave him a threatening look. He wore only light cotton breeches and a beige tunic, belted at his waist, and soft suede boots. Her senses filled with a masculine scent of leather mixed with the musky scent of his soap.

Her heartbeat galloped in sudden fear. "You followed me."

"Aye. I followed you."

"To see where I was going?"

"Nay." He smiled as he watched her try to recover from her scare. "In hopes of finding you alone somewhere. I want to assess how you fare in this battle of...wills between us. I wanted to know if you read my letters or burned them without opening them."

Her arms came over her bosom, a gesture of prayer or perhaps to shield herself from the effect of his dark gaze. "Your letters…you want only to torment me more."

"Are you tormented, love?"

His voice was a whisper-soft lure. The answer was aye, though she would not arm him more by telling him this. For two weeks she had lain in bed every night, terrified he would come to her. Like tonight. Two weeks of madness, of being tormented by forbidden fantasy that left her panting, trying to catch her breath, to slow the race of her heart, to ease the fiery ache that spread and grew in her loins. And with little success, she fell into an uneasy sleep each night, only to find herself suffering worse with erotic dreams that woke her even more unfulfilled.

Yet she was just as tormented by the waiting darkness.

"Let us see how tormented you are, love. A test..." He lowered his lips, lightly touching the curve of her neck, barely touching. She felt a heated chill on that spot. "Lower your arms, love..."

Her breathing quickened. Her heart pounded. By cursed magic the command stole her will; she slowly lowered her arms.

She stood perfectly still, the heat of his gaze penetrating her gown. Anticipation was keen, heightening with each breath. She trembled with it. As if she had lived her life for the moment his hands touched her.

Callused fingers grazed her shoulders, teasing, testing. The warmth of her skin saturated his senses. His hand lingered just above her breast. He felt each sharp intake of her breath, the wild race of her heart. His fingers toyed menacingly with the laces of her dress. He watched the tightening tips of her breasts beneath the cloth.

"Shall I loosen your laces?"

The question was asked as he lowered her head and gently bit the sensitive lobe of her ear. A hot shiver rushed through her.

"Say aye..."

Another test. Her hesitation filled, not with indecision, but with a titillating expectation that was indeed torment.

"Aye," she whispered heatedly.

Deft fingers slowly untied the thin strings. His large hands rested lightly across her bosom as they worked, their heat a sweet balm on her taut nerves. She came undone with the laces. He pulled away the cloth, revealing the thin, transparent under-gown.

He kissed her ear, her closed lids, then brushed his lips across hers, idly kneading her lower lip until she gasped. "Paxton..."

"Shall I touch you, Linness?"

"Aye..."

His hands slid beneath the cloth, parting it from the treasure beneath, and smoothed the rounded lift of her breasts. She drew a sharp breath. The pleasure was acute. Fiery shivers spiraled between her legs as his thumbs slowly circled the tightened peaks. She threw her head back against the wooden beams, arching into the heat of his palms. "Paxton." She murmured his name as if in prayer as her hands reached up to span his shoulders, searching for support.

He rewarded her response with deepening strokes as he whispered against her mouth. "Linness...how many times have I imagined feeling the weight of your breasts in my hand, hearing your cries, seeing your eyes shine with passion?" He kissed her lips. "And, Linness, how privation doth sweeten the pleasure."

"Paxton." She said his name again as a demand for his lips. She did not have to ask twice. His mouth came over hers as her arms circled his neck. The brush of their bodies, the strokes of his hands, brought another rush between her thighs as she succumbed to the pounding sweetness of this kiss.

"Linness." He uttered her name as his lips traveled to the arch of her throat, making her gasp. His loins were hard and swollen, he was losing his mind. He knew only one thing. "Linness, I want all of you...I want..."

The words were left unsaid as his lips found her breasts. His lips moved back and forth over a nipple. The world started spinning and she closed her eyes, a helpless whimper escaping her lips as his tongue swept around and around the tightening bud. Her nerves went wild. "Paxton, Paxton, not here, not here…"

It was all she could manage.

He tried to slow the race of his pulse just long enough to get her behind closed doors. He swept her into his arms and carried her swiftly up the stairs into the kitchen. The world still spun, her blood ran hot. She tried to right her gown as he carried her through the outer hall and then he suddenly stopped.

Morgan stumbled into the hall.

She felt Paxton's muscles stiffen. Her gaze shot up and her face lost all color. Morgan's precarious balance was evidence that he was quite drunk, and for one brief moment it seemed he wouldn't notice them. He often consumed prodigious amounts of spirits, though he rarely suffered from any malaise the next day—and he often toppled over at the table in drunken sleep, waking in the middle of the night to stumble back to bed. Like now.