Fire Dance (37 page)

"Melisande," he called to her over her stiffened shoulder, "come back to me, love."

"You have promised– "

"I did, but this is different. Hear me, love."

"You only want– "

"At the moment, aye."

He tugged at her shoulder to roll her back where she must see him. She felt like a captured hare, caught in her great red tabby's grip, with its belly exposed to the cat's ripping claws. His powerful leg stretched over her, pinning her beneath him. His eyes seemed to burn like charcoal embers.

"Melisande," he whispered, in a gravelly voice, "Melisande, listen to me. I know your secret."

She jerked, squirmed, against the immovable trap. She was doomed. Where would she go, anyway? There was no place he could not reach or find her.

"Aye, love. I know your secret, and I do not care."

It could not be. She freed her arms, shoved against him, yet he pinned her beneath him. He caught her cheeks in his hands, wedging her face firmly between them. His eyes impaled her with their smoky gaze. She was helpless in the snare of his body. She was not ready to die. Not ready, not just yet.

"You cannot– you said– "

"And I will not. Hear me, lady. You are no virgin. And I do not care."

His lips descended to claim hers, hovered but a breath away. What was he saying? What could he mean? And how could he know? None alive knew but her.

"You cannot. How could you? Let me go!" She squirmed helplessly.

"Calm yourself, lady. When you calm, I will let you go."

Her terror spiraled out of control. She staggered ragged breaths into her lungs, gasps that seemed more fear than air, barely aware of the soft touch to her cheek, the melodic, deep timbre of his voice that calmed like a lullaby. That voice that had soothed her out of the terrors of the night.

Alain. Sense began to return to her. She had seen him hold a dying knight as gently as a babe. Suddenly it did not seem possible that this same man might choke her life from her. Not the one who had taken her into his arms night after night and chased the terrors away. Her body eased. Yet–

His words returned. He did know. And she still lived.

He slid off to the side and released her. Shame for her fear rolled over her, as if it would crush her beneath its terrible weight. She sat up and turned away from him, so she did not have to see his eyes.

"How could you know?" she asked quietly.

"That is what I must tell you. Will you hear me, now?"

"Aye."

She felt him rise and sit behind her, his body pressed against her body, a knee to each side of her. His big hands rested at her shoulders, lightly possessing her, yet ready to let go if she insisted. But she did not. She did not know what to think or do.

"I have already made love to you, Melisande."

She jerked again, pulled away. "Nay! It cannot be so."

But he drew her back again, tenderly. "It is. It was the night we were wed. I meant you no harm, love. But I did not know about your dreams then. I thought you willing. I thought you had forgiven me my brutishness."

She shook her head. Confusion clouded her mind.

"It is true. I found you in the corner of your chamber, in the midst of your dream. When you quieted, I took you back to your bed. But then, you would not let me go. Mayhap it was but my own arrogance, but I thought you wanted me. Truly, love, I did." He tucked a gentle kiss behind her ear. "I did not understand then the powerful hold the dreams had on you, that though you appeared to be awake, you were not. Nor did I know you would remember none of what happened."

"And so that is why you were so angry with me that morning."

"Aye. I thought it some malicious trick. I did not see until that next night that you only appeared to waken, and you did not even know I was there."

Hot humiliation scorched her cheeks. "I do not understand. You surely thought me mad. Why did you not set me aside then?"

"I did not want to. And, willing or not, the grounds for annulment were gone."

"No man would have faulted you. You could have said you were defrauded."

"But I did not want to. Melisande, I wanted you from the first time I saw you. I would not give you up so easily."

She turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of his huge hand resting on her shoulder, yet not enough to meet his eyes. She could not do that. "Could you not have told me?"

"Nay, I had lost your trust, and deservedly so. And though I was innocent by intent, I did take you against your will. But you would not have believed me, then."

She had no reply. It was true. She had feared, mistrusted him, even to this hour. And she knew what the dreams did to her, even if she had no memory of them.

"You deserve better," she said. She felt hot, salty moisture sliding down her cheeks, a sensation so long unfelt, it was almost unremembered.

"There is none better than you." His bristly cheek touched hers. Then he shifted her around to face him, and he caught the tear that flowed down her cheek with the tip of his tongue. He whispered her name again.

"Do not hold yourself back from me any longer," he pleaded. "Love me, Melisande."

He still wanted her. He truly did. Or did she but fool herself again? How could it possibly be so?

Now, he drew her up onto her knees, pressed her against his hard flesh. She felt a shudder roll through him and into her.

"Tell me, love. Tell me you give yourself to me."

Oh, yes. Eagerly, she returned the kiss he gave her, finding for herself the joy of his taste, the caress of tongues meeting, mating.

Yet even more, this was her chance. Aye, this was it. She could use it, at last, to save him. If only she might resist him just long enough. But how, when every fiber of her being cried out to join with him? She had never wanted anything more.

Anything but his life. She must do it, for love of him. For love of him, she would do even this.

"But then I would not win."

"Win? What?"

"Your challenge."

"Melisande." A moan rumbled within him. "You cannot think of that, now."

"But this is too easy. You have not given me a chance to win."

He growled, but it was almost a sound of pain. "I only swore I would not force you. And I will not."

He used kisses to lure her back. His hands roamed avariciously over her body, kneaded her, held her tightly against his hardness. Ah. She did want all that he used to entice her.

Nay. Not yet.

She broke off the kiss, sighed, mayhap a bit too pathetically. "I am sorry. I cannot."

Her effort to turn away was halted abruptly. Frustration ruled his eyes.

"Melisande, what is this?"

"Naught but that I had my heart set upon winning the challenge. So I cannot. You will have to force me."

"I will not do that. You know I will not."

"But you have not even been tested."

"I have been tested, sorely. What do you want?"

"Naught but to win the prize, lord. But if you give me no chance– I have not even begun to tempt you, yet."

He threw his head back and dragged in a deep, pained breath. "So be it, then. You may have your prize. Consider it won."

"You will force me, then?"

"Nay. But I will give you your prize, anyway. Anything. But torment me no longer."

She shrugged. "It is all the same. You would not have won, for you are too easy to torment. But I am glad you will not have to suffer."

With a ragged rumble from his chest, he dragged her down to the bed, still coaxing.

She gave freely, joyously, all of herself. His hands moved along her sides, drove the chemise upward over hips, waist, breasts, inflaming all of her in their passing, drew it over her head, and tossed it. She was freed, to be entirely his.

He captured first one breast in his hands, as he licked and suckled, then the other. Lightning shot through her. He fed the deep hunger she had, touching all that begged to be touched, caressed, kneaded, nibbled. Her fingers searched with the same voracious appetite, the elegant, indented curve of his spine, raptured in the restless strength of his muscles, testing first one, then another in her hands. She wanted all of him.

She felt the pressure of his knee between her legs, opened herself to him, wrapped herself around him as he pressed urgently against her. She wanted no delay, and urged him on in every way she could imagine. Yet he seemed to hold back. Did he torture her for tormenting him? Aye, she deserved this sweet agony.

Once again, he captured her mouth, just as he plunged within her, deeply, until she cried out with the exquisiteness of it. Now, he held still, tense, rigid, and she held him to her tightly, as if he might vanish, should she let go.

Yet, that glorious, majestic moment began to fade, and she thought the best must surely be done. It was not. First he seemed to pull away from her, and she wanted to cry out, nay! nay! do not leave me so soon! But just as quickly, he filled her again, renewed that aching passion, so that she thought she would unravel from the sheer pleasure of it.

Now gone, now full, each stroke a great, abandoned yearning, filled, and filled, and filled. Deep, urgent strokes, growing ever deeper, harder, saturating her very being, draining it. Filling, emptying, filling again, teasing, tormenting– nay, he was the great tormenter, not she.

He sat back, raised himself to his knees, lifting her hips as he drove ever deeper. She wanted this, yet wanted the feel of him touching her flesh to flesh, and the conflict warred within her, needing, wanting, whatever she did not have.

Like a shuddering wave of light it hit her, swept over her unexpectedly, vibrating her entire being in its wake. She felt his own hard thrusting suddenly dissolve rapturously into the wave, with the climactic bursts filling her completely.

They seemed to float together on the last wave of ecstasy, drained of all separateness, fitting perfectly together. Never had she felt anything like this. Never had felt so whole, and truly part of another being. She hoped he would never move from where he rested, his cheek against her chest.

All things must change. Time must pass. Slowly, as their breathing calmed, he shifted to her side, and rolled over on his back, tugging at her to roll with him. She rested her head on the rugged planes of his chest and fingered idly those silky black hairs on his chest that fascinated her.

"Ah, little temptress," he said, caressing her hair, "now that you have won, what great prize will you extract from me?"

She raised up on one elbow and teased the tip of a finger over the sensuous curve of his lips. She smiled, a strange, unnatural, awkward imitation of the real thing. Wobbly, like a babe's first steps.

He thought he knew her secret. He had uncovered only the second of many layers of secrets, each more dire than the one before. He had forgiven but the merest of them. She had little hope for more.

But it was enough. Where once she had feared dying, feared the fires of Hell and the menace that awaited her there, now she was content. It was a different thing, this giving of one's life, for she did it for love. He might never know how much she loved him, might always think her the perfidious one who had cheated his heart from him. But it did not matter. Only that she would give him back his life, bought with her own.