My Fallen Angel (25 page)

Down the side of her neck his lips trailed, halting at her collarbone to place a tender kiss against the pulse beating above it. She arched into him, rubbing her butter-soft thighs against his and pressing herself against his hardness. For a moment he lost control, nipping her flesh. She groaned. He nipped again, taking his time as his lips traveled toward her nipple. When he took her between his lips, he tasted her.

One last time.

He allowed her to shift beneath him so he could memorize the feel of legs against his, the satiny touch of her inner knee, the heel of her foot as it brushed against his calf. Once again he began to kiss her, memorizing the soft touch of her tongue against his, the heat of her thighs as she parted for him, the sound of her sighs.

She brushed up against him, her body urging him closer. But he refused to enter her. Instead, he started a new kind of assault. Slowly, he moved his hips, using the tip of his erection to trail up her wetness. It was paradise.

It was hell. He heard her breath catch. Then she breathed his name against his mouth. Closer and closer he brought her toward fulfillment. Tremors racked his body as he fought to hold back, but still he didn’t enter her. Dear God, how he wanted to.

“Garrick, please,” she begged.

And this, too, he committed to memory. The husky sound of her voice, breathless with need. The frenetic movement of her body as she tried to coerce him inside her. And when the torture grew too much to bear, he trailed his lips down the cords of her neck again, nipped the small indentation next to her collarbone, swirled his tongue down toward her navel. She arched into him, parted wider, and he took what she offered. He drank of her, lapped at the flesh between her thighs. Moisture flooded his mouth. Her cries grew louder. She pressed herself against him, and he drank until she cried out his name, pulsed against his lips.

“Oh, Garrick.”

But he wanted more, wanted to give her all he had to give, and then some. He rose above her and slowly, gently sank into her willing sheath. He felt her barrier break, heard her soft moan, then released his own sigh of pleasure and pain as he entered her fully.

Finally, they were one. The love that shimmered between them was all the more poignant for its power. He knew he would lose control soon, but he couldn’t stop his own answering moans as he slowly slid in and out of her. His chest hair brushed against the swell of her breasts, exciting him more. Still, he held back. One more time. He needed to hear her moan with sweetrelease one more time, wanted to close his eyes and recall the sound for all eternity.

“Garrick …”

And there it was. The sound he’d been waiting for. Her body spasmed around his and he let himself go. Just closed his eyes and moved in and out of her faster and then faster still. He savored the feel of it, the warmth of her, the sweetness of her, until finally, all too quickly, his body pulsed its own sweet release.

“Lucy,” he whispered. “My sweet Luce.”

Her arms wrapped around him. He could feel her warm breath as she nestled her head against him. Slowly, he returned to earth.

For the last time.

His eyes burned as he held her close. God, how he loved her. Would always love her. She was the light in his darkness. Heaven, in his hell.

“Garrick?”

He didn’t want to move, didn’t want her to see his torture. But soft hands clutched at him, forced him to look at her, and when their eyes met, hers widened.

“Oh, Garrick. You’re crying.”

It felt as if he were dying. Still, the minutes passed, dropping away one after another until only moments remained.

Garrick made love to her twice more during the night. Now, as the time for him to leave drew nearer, he was tormented by the thought of doing so.

She was nestled against his side like a child, herbreathing even, her arms wrapped around his shoulder. Beautiful even in her sleep. Her hair lay tossed around them, like a silken cloth. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, and the single sheet that covered them tangled about her legs. Never would he forget. Not the way she felt against him, not the smell of their spent passion, not the way she looked while she slept. Not a thing.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asked softly. The fear returned; it clutched at his insides and clasped itself around his heart. He must go, though he was terrified of what awaited him beyond; go because if he didn’t, Lucy would pay the price.

His throat clogged with emotion as he stared down at her, so peaceful in sleep, so completely unaware of what he was about to do. “I’ll miss you, my love.” His hand trembled. A feeling of helplessness assailed him. He swallowed and then bent down to lightly kiss her forehead, inhaling her sweet fragrance. Roses. He committed it to memory, vowing never to forget.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to let go, to break contact with her. First his legs, then his body. His arms were the hardest for they felt leaden, shaking so terribly now he could barely force them to work.

The ship began to pitch wildly, making it hard to dress. As he turned to leave he knelt down beside the bed. gently, he stroked the side of her face. His legs began to feel weak, his eyes to burn. “little angel.” Tenderly, he leaned over and lightly kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

When he drew back, a slight smile creased her lips. He committed the picture to memory.

The ship rolled violently. She grumbled in her sleep.

Garrick stood, barely noticing the yaw. His hand fell limply back to his side.

It was time.

The breath he took was nearly a gasp, his feet not wanting to move, but he forced them to. One last look of longing and he turned away; the door seemed to him as frightening as the very door to hell itself. And when he touched that door, was it his imagination or did it feel hot? He rested his forehead against the wood. He couldn’t do it. Jesus, it felt as if he were being torn in two. Squeezing his eyes closed he took several deep breaths, then forced himself to turn the knob. He had to, for Lucy’s sake.

The moment the door was open, rain hit his face like small pebbles. The door was pulled from his grasp by the wind, the wood banging against the outer wall. Papers he’d left on the table blew behind him.

“Garrick,” Lucy cried.

He paused, the wind whipping wildly about him. His tears mixed with the rain. Hot rain. Nearly as hot as the sting of pain which filled his insides, his mind, and his heart. He took a step.

“Garrick,” she called again.

He took another step. God help him, he couldn’t turn to look at her, knowing if he did, he’d never leave.

“M’lord,” a man yelled from behind the wheel only a few feet in front of him. “I never seen nothin’ like it. It comes out of nowhere.”

Garrick registered his words only distantly, moving past the man, heading for the ladder that led to the upper deck. It was as if he were being compelled tomove forward, drawn by a force he could neither see nor feel. Stinging rain lashed his face, falling into his eyes with pelting force. The world became a washed-out blur. It was black, blacker than the deepest part of the ocean. Salt filled his mouth, burned down his throat, stung his eyes. Still, Garrick climbed slowly, one foot at a time. The sails crackled with a simmering energy, the very air itself felt charged. It was time, he thought. Time to leave. Time to leave Lucy.

“Welcome, Garrick,” a voice said. Strangely enough, he could hear that voice perfectly over the element’s rage. “I see you’ve kept your part of the bargain, though you’re a bit early.”

Belial.

Even against the backdrop of blackness, Garrick could see his darker than midnight form.

“Garrick?”

Garrick jerked as if he’d been struck. The voice, so cherished and dear, called over the scream of the storm. Lucy.

“Such a brave thing, she is,” Belial said with mock pity.

“Don’t touch her,” Garrick warned. He turned. God help him, he turned.

Bright red curls bobbled into view, then the pale oval of Lucy’s terrified face. The sheet she had wrapped around her was a splash of white as she struggled to climb. Thunder boomed above, and lightning flashed in the same instant. Garrick’s heart stopped. It had grown strangely quiet, a quiet he had heard only once before.

He tried to cry a warning, but he was too late.

The wave, when it hit, knocked him off his feet and sent him skittering like a rock toward the rail. He clawed at the deck, his terror for Lucy giving him a will he hadn’t known he possessed. Pain sluiced through him as his back made contact with the thick oak rail. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, the weight of the wave and the freezing cold knocking the breath out of him. Then he was clear. The water rolled off him, leaving foam in its wake. The ship rocked, but he clung, his thoughts centered on one thing.

Lucy.

“Gaaarick,” she screamed.

There was terror in that voice, terror such as he’d never heard. Nearly blinded by the salt and wind that filled his eyes, he crawled toward where he’d last seen her, climbing up the rail.

Laughter echoed around him, taunting, triumphant, terrifying.

“Gaaaariiiiick.”

He pushed himself to his feet; the wind ripped at his clothes and hair. He found her hanging half-on, half-off the deck. One more wave and she would be swept away. Panic made him lunge toward her.

“Garrick,” she cried.

“Take my hand,” he called.

It took two tries for her hands to meet his over the rocking of the ship. She was icy-cold in his grasp. He pulled, slowly lifting her.

Evil, mad laughter filled the air.

They landed, sprawled upon the deck. Hands fumbled for him, making their way toward his face. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the stinging rain from his eyes.

A pair of cherished green eyes peered into his own. “Oh, Garrick. Thank God,” she gasped.

He wanted to touch her, to kiss her and never let go, but once again a sudden, ominous quiet filled the air. His heart stopped beating, then resumed at a furious rate. Lucy seemed oblivious. Using the last vestige of his strength, Garrick rolled atop her. She looked startled, then smiled.

“Hold on,” he cried.

Her look turned to one of confusion. He bent down and kissed her.

A last kiss. His last taste of heaven.

“I love you, Lucy,” he called over the howl of the wind. “Never forget.”

She seemed startled by his words, but then his body was pulled away from hers as a giant cauldron of water rammed him like a charging horse. He heard a tremendous crack and knew the rail had broken. Blackness descended, a feminine scream filled his ears, and then he fell, fell as if he’d never land, fell toward the churning mass “of angry sea.

He was dead. Lucy lay on the sandy beach, the sun making prisms on the waves like glass in a kaleidoscope. The steady roar of the ocean filled the air, the smell of brine and the buzzing of sand flies creating its own peaceful melody.

Lucy was oblivious to it all as she sat on the sand, her eyes staring sightlessly out at the horizon.

He was dead.

She took a deep, shaky breath, trying for the thousandth time not to cry. It didn’t work. The tears managed to escape anyway. They fell, unchecked, down her cheeks, the wind that always seemed to whip over the shores of Garrick’s estate picking them up and tugging them toward her jaw. A gull cried overhead, the sound as lonely and raw as she herself felt. Pain intensified, doubled. She inhaled deeply, and her breath caught on a sob.

Concentrate, Lucy. Concentrate on the black fabric of your dress. Concentrate on being strong. Concentrate on the ocean

Garrick loved so much. You may be a widow, but you can be the bloody finest widow Cardiff had ever seen.

Cardiff. So beautiful with the granite castle stretching high on the cliffs behind her.

She squeezed her eyes closed, knowing one of the staff watched her from the parapet behind her, yet the tears managed to escape anyway. She inhaled a ragged breath. A tear trekked down her cheek and she wiped it away with a grainy hand, uncaring that she left a streak of fine grit behind.

They had searched for him for days, which had stretched into a month, and then two. The magistrate had told them they would continue to watch the beach. Sometimes they’d wash ashore, he had told her.
They,
the man had said. As if Garrick was nothing more than a piece of flesh, an empty shell to be found. Bile rose in her throat at the image of him being found. No. She would not think of it. She would remember Garrick as he was, vibrant, his sea-blue eyes full of life, his smile filled with love.

Her hands clenched into fists, her shoulders hunched. She was going to break down again; she could feel the storm of tears building inside of her, could feel the emotion clogging her throat, plugging her nose. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t work. Her next breath was a sob and when she opened her eyes, it was through a sheen of tears.

She cried.

Cried for the love she had lost.

She sobbed.

Sobbed for the pain she saw in her friends’ eyes every time they looked at her.

She mourned.

Mourned for the child who would never know its father.

She lay down on her side, uncaring that sand tangled in her loose hair. Her body shook with the force of her emotions. Their child. A child conceived in love, a child Garrick would never see, never teach how to sad, never grow to love.

Everyone told her that it would be all right, that she must go on. But it would never be right. The man she loved was dead, taken away by her own carelessness.

“It’s in, they’ve decided!” yelled a white-robed, dark-haired figure with the face of an angel—which he was.

The door to Arlan’s office banged open so hard, the brass nameplate with
A. H. SHUCK
inscribed on its surface clattered to the marble floor.

Arlan looked up, excitement caused his wings to quiver. “When?”

“Just now. They’re about to read the verdict. Hurry.”

Arlan shot up from his chair and raced around his desk. His friend turned, his wings swatting Arlan across the face and giving him a mouthful of feathers. Not that he cared. He had waited months for this moment, months during which Garrick’s soul had been in limbo, and Lucy, poor Lucy, had nearly died of a broken heart.

The counsel room bustled with activity, those from the upper regions sitting on his right, their wings furled behind them. On his left, those from the lower regions sat, a forest of pitchforks rising from their masses.

Arlan ignored it all and kept his eye firmly focused on the raised dais in front of him, or more importantly on the gray-bearded, silver-headed moderator who sat upon it. It was impossible to glimpse anything in the man’s brown eyes. His bushy brows shielded them from the light, but his lips pulled into a frown as he glanced first at Arlan, then at Belial, and then looked away.

A bailiff opened the gate separating the masses from those defending the case. Arlan took his seat, refusing to look at Belial and the devil’s counsel, Dameon, who had argued the case. No doubt both were looking smug, which was to be expected given the moderator they’d drawn. It was an established fact that although moderators had a vested interest in being neutral, many had a tendency to vote more frequently for one side or another. Even moderators would one day try to earn their wings. When that time came, who wanted an angry devil trying to foul them up?

“Quiet, please,” the bailiff ordered.

The din faded into silence, pitchforks lowered, wings fluttered, throats cleared.

“You may read the charges,” the moderator said.

“Case number 100923. Wolf vs. Belial. Charges filed on behalf of Wolf by A. H. Shuck.”

The moderator inclined his head. “Let the record state that counsel for both parties are present.”

The bailiff began to read. “The charges filed by Mr. A. H. Shuck on behalf of the Plaintiff state that the Defendant, one Belial, aka the Devil, aka Beelzebub, aka Old Scratch, etc., did knowingly enter into a standard soul-for-a-soul contract with Plaintiff, one Wolf, andthat the aforementioned Contract should be considered null in that upon execution of said Contract, Exchangee’s soul, Exchangee being one Lucy Hartford, was in reality two souls, in that Exchangee was carrying Plaintiffs child.

“Plaintiff also argues that the Defendant did knowingly and willingly change a soul’s Time of Death in order to coerce the Plaintiff into said Contract. Said T.O.D. has now changed the course of history in that it has been foreseen that Exchangee’s child, a child who was never supposed to be born, will affect future world events.” The bailiff lowered the paper he was reading from and looked at the moderator.

“Let the record state that the charges have been read,” the moderator announced.

Arlan tensed. This was it.

“Let me preface my decision by saying that this was one of the most difficult cases I’ve ever had to moderate. Not only did I have to consider the T.O.D. issue, but I also had to consider the Exchangee’s health and happiness, as well as that of the child she carries.” He paused, piercing Arlan with a stare. “I have decided in favor of the Plaintiff.”

The crowd gasped, pitchforks banged on the floor, angels applauded.

Belial slammed his fist on the table, letting out a screech of rage which echoed throughout the room.

Arlan shot from his chair. His wings quivered in excitement.

“Further,” the moderator went on, much to Arlan’s shock, “in light of the child and the health of the

Exchangee, I have decided to invoke the Right to Release Act.”

Another gasp came from someone in the room. “Therefore, at oh-eight-hundred earth time, the Plaintiff’s memory of his time with us will be erased, where after he will be returned to earth and his Lucy.”

Thunder boomed into the little room, the thunder of God’s laughter.