No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (27 page)

Ali rolled over in his arms to face him. “Then I am very lucky to have you as a friend,” she said, winding her fingers through his hair, knowing that he spoke the truth. “And as a husband,” she added, softly brushing her lips across his.

Andre responded with a groan. He opened his mouth against hers and kissed her hard, plundering her with his tongue until Ali forgot everything but the pounding of her heart and the feel of his body on hers.

He made love to her that morning with a ferocious tenderness that left Ali thinking maybe he was wrapping a protective layer of his own around her too.

Ali lounged on a pile of cushions, her book lying forgotten on her lap, mulling over the last three weeks. It had been a good time, a peaceful time. They spent hours making love, more hours discussing history, politics, all sorts of fascinating subjects.

Ali had always been infinitely grateful for the education Nicholas had given her, but now that she could use it to converse with Andre, it became even more precious to her. He had an acute brain and enjoyed teaching her, so she learned new things every day.

At the moment his extraordinary powers of concentration were focused on his book, his feet propped up in his favorite position. He’d been reading the
Odyssey
in the original Greek for the last week, a wonderful story.

Ali knew. She’d read it, also in the Greek. But she hadn’t told him that, since she much preferred his recounting the chapters in his own words. She begged him to do just that every night over dinner, since she found Andre’s humorous interpretation as interesting as Homer’s original intent.

Anyway, there were things that he didn’t yet know about her, which might be better for him to discover in small increments. Such as her ability to speak Italian and Arabic now—and also to read Greek and Latin. She didn’t want to shock him, since he’d been upset enough about her managing the waltz. Ali grinned to herself.

But then he’d come a long way since then. Every day he seemed a little more carefree, as if the deep unhappiness he’d carried around for years was finally releasing its wintry grip on him. A man she’d never seen before but had always known was in there was slowly emerging, and Ali delighted in watching it happen.

She suspected his progress was a result of so much lovemaking. It wasn’t easy keeping one’s emotions tucked away when nothing else was. He smiled often, and laughed out loud all the time. He didn’t measure his words as carefully. He didn’t retreat nearly as often, either, and although there was a part of him that he still held far away from her, she didn’t mind. She couldn’t expect everything all at once.

Her eyes lovingly traced the high arch of his nose, the sharp definition of his cheek, the beautiful sculpted shape of his mouth, wondering if he was aware of the changes in himself. Probably not, but then that was typical of Andre. As acute as his brain might be, he was remarkably good at concealing his feelings from himself. But he couldn’t conceal them from her.

Andre’s heart was beginning to open. Now it was just a matter of time.

Ali sighed happily, and Andre glanced up.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” he asked.

“Dinner,” she lied. “I taught Mrs. Lummus how to make
imam bayildi.
She didn’t mind the idea of stuffing an aubergine, but I think she had a hard time accepting all the garlic. But it ought to be delicious.”

“Mrs. Lummus,” he replied, “is becoming a paragon of Turkish cuisine, even if she does think us both mad as hatters.” He smiled. “But then she’s a good country woman. I can’t wait until you get your hands on the Sutherby chef, who’s French. We’re bound to have hysterics in the kitchen.”

“No, no,” Ali replied. “The secret of managing chefs is to flatter them wildly while slowly bending them to your will.”

“And where did you learn that?” he asked, finding his bookmark and marking his page.

“From Jo-Jean,” she said. “He made such a fuss about my seafood stew that I felt obliged to make it at least twice a week. Personally, I think he made a fuss because it saved him the trouble of having to hunt, but it worked.”

Andre reached his arm out, wrapping his fingers around Ali’s ankle. “If you’re so susceptible to flattery, then I have a few sweet nothings to whisper in your ear.” He pulled her toward him, stretched his body over hers.

“Mrs. Lummus?” she murmured as he began to nuzzle her neck.

“Not expected for at least half an hour. I’ll be quick.”

Ali began to unbutton his shirt.

“You fiend,” Ali cried the following afternoon, kicking her horse into a gallop behind Andre as he took off in front of her.

“Then catch me up.” Andre headed straight for the beach, knowing that although Ali might be a fast and brilliant rider, he had the advantage of superior strength and a larger horse capable of carrying his weight. Ali hated it when he beat her, which he did regularly. In races.

The rest of the time she managed to bring him to his knees. He could only be grateful that the initial spontaneous combustion Ali had inspired in his loins had settled down to a more manageable, if perpetual, simmer, or he wasn’t sure how he would have survived the rest of his life.

He maneuvered his horse down the sandy slope, carefully watching the slippery footing until he had gained firm ground. He was busy reflecting on the pleasures of Ali’s bed when a whoop came from above him, and he looked up only to see Ali making a mad— no, a completely insane—leap with her horse from the embankment.

“Ali, for God’s sake!” he cried, pulling his horse to a halt, his heart stopping in terror as she flew through the air on a certain course of death, hunched over her horse’s neck.

In that second he thought he might die himself.

But incredibly enough, she and her mare landed safely a few yards in front of him.

Ali laughed, her hair whipping in the wind. “Beat you,” she called.

Andre dismounted, a wild anger taking hold of him. He stormed over the sand and grabbed her by both arms, dragging her off the horse to face him.

“Don’t you ever,
ever
pull a stunt like that again,” he shouted, his fingers biting into her shoulders. “Ever!”

“Why?” she asked nonchalantly enough, but she looked startled by his anger. “It’s not as if I haven’t jumped a horse hundreds of times before.”

“Because,” he said, furious with himself for feeling so shaken, “one of these days you’ll break your neck. Is that reason enough?”

Ali glared at him. “And if I do? It’s my neck, isn’t it?”

“What kind of question is that?” he said, the blood pounding in his ears, his groin suddenly inflamed by the rebellion in her eyes. “You gave me your damned neck along with the rest of you the day you married me, and by God, I’ll keep what’s mine.”

He pulled her to him, savaging her mouth, his hands moving to her skirt, lifting it over her hips, crushing her against his aching erection. Ali savaged him right back in instant, furious response.

“And I’ll have what’s mine,” he muttered roughly, picking her up and quickly carrying her to the shelter of an overhanging berm. “Now, Ali, because it pleases me. Do you hear me?”

In answer her fingers went to the front of his trousers, undoing them, releasing him. She took him in her hand, stroking him hard and fast.

Inflamed, driven beyond control, he pushed her against the wall of sand, moving her underclothes to one side and spreading her legs, his mouth possessing hers at the same time he entered her, standing.

He took her swiftly, furiously, as if he were unleashing the desperate fear he’d felt at the thought of losing her, claiming her primitively, his emotions scraped raw.

Ali accepted him equally primitively, crying out, clawing at his back, her head tossing frantically in the sand as he pummeled her, faster and harder and deeper than he ever had before, needing to possess her completely, to own her, to leave his mark on her.

He lifted her higher up on his hips and banged her back into the hard sand. “By God, you won’t do that again, will you?” he said savagely, giving her no respite. He drove into her again, determined to force her promise. “Will you?” he demanded, with another pounding drive. “Swear it.”

“I do,” she cried. “I swear it—oh, Andre…” She rose up to him and met him thrust for thrust, her body shaking under his, straining toward him as he hammered into her, gone far beyond reason, only knowing that he wanted to drink in her life, to blindly wipe out the terrifying specter of death that he’d envisioned in that one split second.

She moaned, grabbing his hair and pulling his head down, frantically taking his mouth, and he bit her lip, drawing blood. Ali cried out, raking his back with his nails, her hips thrashing against his in a need to draw him even closer.

He grabbed her buttocks and pounded her back against the sand once again, his fingers digging into her flesh, his breath fast and hot on her cheek. “Tell me, Ali. Tell me.”

He didn’t even know what the question was, only that he needed her answer.

“Oh, Andre!” she sobbed. And she screamed then, a cry of sensation that had become too much to bear. It carried into the howl of the wind and the crash of the surf, blending into the elements as if it had been born from them.

His own desperate cry echoed hers, his ejaculation searing them both as he branded her with the same fury with which he’d taken her.

And then as sanity slowly returned, Andre sank down onto his knees, bringing Ali with him, his head bowed, his eyes closed, tom apart by what he’d just done—tom by how much he needed her, tom by the violence with which he had expressed that need.

Had he but realized it, he had just assumed the posture of prayer.

“Andre—Andre, please tell me what’s wrong?” Ali asked, tugging on his arm to get his attention. From the moment he had abruptly pulled away from her on the beach, he’d been behaving in this cold, distant fashion.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, detaching himself from her and resuming his packing.

“Then why do we have to leave?” she said. “I thought we weren’t going back to Sutherby for three more days.”

“We weren’t,” he said. “But I have work to do. We can’t live in an idyll forever.”

“I don’t see why not,” Ali said, picking Sherifay up and cuddling her, desperately needing comfort.

“Because I have a book to write, and an idea is nagging at the back of my mind. I don’t want to let it slip away.”

“Oh,” Ali said, trying to stifle her disappointment. She knew what Andre was like when he started thinking about books. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Because the idea only occurred to me this afternoon. Now get on with your own packing, Ali. I’d like to catch the six o’clock train.”

She turned back to the armoire, her feelings terribly hurt. He was impossible to understand sometimes. How, after their incredible experience on the beach, could he have immediately started thinking about a book?

Maybe, she thought sadly, only she had thought it incredible.

She was beginning to discover how difficult it was to love so deeply and not be loved in return.

A
li came awake, alone once again save for Sherifay, who was snuggled at her feet. She sat up in her vast bed, as vast as the distance that Andre had created between them.

Oh, he still came to her bed, but his lovemaking was restrained in comparison to what it had been, and although he stayed long enough for her to fall asleep, he was always gone before she woke. Maybe it was the chilly atmosphere of Sutherby that affected him— it didn’t do a thing for her either. It just wasn’t the sort of place to make sons, not that she’d been successful in that either, to her great disappointment.

She looked up at the magnificent canopy, as magnificent as everything else at Sutherby. She looked at the silk hangings, the gilded chairs, the Mortlake tapestries worked with the Acts of the Apostles.

Sutherby had one hundred seventy-five rooms and almost every single one had a religious theme. As much as she loved God, it depressed her, for there wasn’t any joy in the house, and she had to find a way to change that. Sutherby, like any house, should be a reflection of the people who lived in it, not a mausoleum to the past. How could they possibly be happy in a mausoleum?

But before she could do anything about Sutherby, she had to do something about Andre.

“Please, God,” she whispered, “I need Your help. Andre’s behaving very strangely, and I cannot think why. I know it’s not his book—it’s more as if he’s closed himself off.”

She sat quietly, waiting for an answer, should God feel like giving her one. It might take some time, she knew. This wasn’t the first time she’d asked. Andre was so complicated that his inner workings resembled a maze. She’d never known anyone as talented at concealing his emotions. Take his incredible love for Genevieve—and yet never once had he spoken of her. And take his temper—it was something to behold, yet he rarely showed it. Usually he kept a tight clamp on it and carried it around inside himself instead. Yet she had an uncanny ability to make him lose it.

And then like a light exploding in her head, the answer came to her clear as day. Andre really was still angry with her, but pretending not to be. Typical. He could carry a grudge to his grave. “Well, I suppose the only way ever to change things is to meet the problem head-on, isn’t it? You taught me that long ago.”

She smiled happily, feeling much better. “Thank you, God. You’ve been very helpful.”

She hopped out of bed and dressed, wondering if Andre’s fairy-child had ever annoyed him. Somehow she doubted it.

Oh, it was unfair that she wasn’t fair and fragile.

“Andre,” she said, bearding him in the huge study where he sat with a mound of foolscap at his elbow, “I must speak with you.”

He raised his head, his expression distracted. “Certainly. What is it?”

“It’s very serious,” she said, sitting down opposite and summoning her courage. “I have an apology to make to you.”

“An apology?” he replied, frowning. “An apology for what? Have you broken something? Don’t worry, just tell one of the footmen. It’s all yours to break, anyway.”

“Andre. Will you please pay attention? I haven’t broken anything, although I ought to, and directly over your head.”

Andre scratched his temple with his pen. “Are you about to subject me to a fit of temper? Because I warn you, Ali, I’m in no mood. I have to finish checking this chapter, and it is
not
going smoothly.”

“Never mind the chapter,” she said. “This is much more important. You are angry with me,” she said bluntly.

“I am?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Do I know what I am angry about?”

“Of course you do. You’re still furious with me about jumping my horse when I might have been carrying your child.”

“What?”
Andre groaned, then threw his pen on top of his papers, abandoning his work. “What in God’s name gives you that idea? And why is this coming out of the clear blue sky?”

“It isn’t coming out of the clear blue sky. You’ve behaved very strangely this whole last month, and the only reason I can think of is that you’re angry with me, and you’ve been waiting for a formal apology.”

“Ali,” he cried, then stopped and brushed his hands through his hair. “I promise you, I am not angry with you,” he said. “You swore you wouldn’t do anything foolish like that again and I trust you to keep your word.”

“Naturally I will keep my word. But that’s not the point.” She placed both hands on the cool wood of his desk. “I made you lose your temper, and you hate to lose your temper.”

“It’s not something I particularly enjoy, no,” he said, fiddling with his papers.

“And I don’t want you to cut me off as you did your parents when they angered you, or your godparents, even though you’ve finally forgiven Nicholas and Georgia,” she said in a rush. “I couldn’t bear it, Andre, really I couldn’t. So will you please forgive me so that we can get on with our lives?”

He rubbed a finger over his temple, then folded his hands together. “Ali,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know where all this has come from, but believe me, you are barking up the wrong tree.” He drew in a deep breath. “I am not angry with you, and you’ve done nothing wrong. It didn’t even occur to me at the time that you might be pregnant. If you remember, I was more concerned about your life.”

“Oh,” Ali said. “Well, that’s a relief. Then why have you been so distant?”

“If you feel that I’ve been ignoring you, I’m sorry, but I’ve been awash in work, and I can’t give you my undivided attention as I did at Milford.”

“Arghhh!” she cried in frustration, banging her fists on his desk. “You are impossible. Just as I thought you were becoming human, you go and bottle yourself up again.” She clenched her hands in her lap. “If you’re not angry with me, then what is your problem?”

“I wasn’t aware that I had a problem,” he said coolly. “I was also unaware that I was lacking in humanity in your opinion.”

Ali stood. “That’s it,” she said. She marched over to the massive double doors of the study and stuck her head out. “Pennyswell,” she called to the butler, who was just approaching the study with a tray of coffee. “My husband and I are not to be disturbed under any circumstances. He can have his coffee later.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Pennyswell said, turning obediently on his heel and retreating with no change of expression.

“Pennyswell,” Andre called. “Come directly back here.”

Pennyswell vanished, and Ali smiled victoriously and pulled the doors shut. She turned the key in the lock and dropped it in her pocket, crossing the room and facing him. “You and I are going to have this out here and now, because I refuse to endure another minute of your nonsense.”

Andre’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Do not think to provoke me, Ali.”

“What will you do?” she said, throwing down the gauntlet. “Take me over your knee? I think not. You don’t believe in violence.”

To Ali’s surprise, a faint blush stained his cheeks. “No,” he said. “I don’t.” He looked down at his hands.

“Well, then. You could threaten to remove me from my friends, but they are all in London for the little season.”

“Are you saying that is where you wish to be? Attending parties with your friends?”

The paperweight on his desk suddenly took on a whole new appeal. “No. I want to be here with you. But
with
you, Andre. Not as a shadow in your life. Not someone to whom you’re unfailingly polite, and whose bed you visit only as a duty.”

“As a duty?” he said, looking astonished. “
That’s
what you think I’ve been doing?”

Ali folded her arms across her chest. “Yes. I do. I’m not stupid, Andre. I know what it is like when you choose to make love to me instead of politely servicing me like a mare. And so do you.”

His cheeks flamed, and for a moment she saw a flash of the old Andre in his eyes before he put his head in his hands. “You are very wrong,” he said tightly.

“Am I? I don’t think so. And I don’t think this has anything to do with our wedding trip being over, unless Sutherby has addled your brains so badly that you can’t think straight. Or you are constantly reminded of things you’d rather not be reminded of.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes sharp on her face. “What do you mean by that?”

“I am referring to your grandfather, the horrible old man,” she said, looking around the room. “I can’t think you ever found much happiness here.”

He relaxed slightly. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Well, then. It’s time for that to change. We need to fill the house with people, with friends and family, and I think Christmas is the perfect time to do it. I’m going to ask Nicholas and Georgia, and Hattie of course, and Matthew, and anyone else in the family who wants to come.”

Andre rubbed his neck. “Don’t you think that’s a little much? We’re only just married. You haven’t had a chance to learn the running of the house.”

Ali snorted. “While you’ve been buried in here, I’ve been busy. I know the house backward and forward, I know every member of the staff by name, indoor and out, and I know that the one thing this place needs is some happiness brought to it. A little less stuffiness and a lot more fun would be in order.”

Andre nodded, but he still looked disconcerted. “Do as you like then. As I said before, it’s your house too.”

“It is my house, isn’t it?” Ali said, grinning. “And I will do as I like. Since you’ve given me your permission, I know just where to start.”

“Oh? Where is that?” Andre asked, but he watched her carefully, as well he should have, for Ali began to undo the buttons of her dress.

“Here,” she said, pulling it off and stepping out of her crinoline.

Andre groaned. “For God’s sake, not again. Please, Ali, get a grip on yourself.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve done,” she said, coming around the desk. “Sutherby needs a good turning-around, and if it takes carnally christening all one hundred seventy-five rooms to exorcise the past, we’re going to do it properly.”

She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and ran her hands up over his broad chest, her fingers playing with his nipples, which instantly became taut beneath her touch. His muscles flinched involuntarily as she caressed them, and Ali, well pleased, lowered her mouth to his and kissed him heatedly, her teeth nipping his full lower lip as she straddled his lap.

“Ali, please—please don’t do this,” he said desperately, his hands trying to restrain her hips.

“Why not?” she asked, rocking on his stiffening penis, relishing the feel of his length rubbing between her legs.

He buried his forehead against her breasts, breathing hard, his heart pounding as if he’d been running too fast, his skin suddenly on fire under her touch. It was the most uninhibited reaction that she’d had from him in the entire month they’d been at Sutherby.

“Why not?” she asked again, murmuring the question into his soft hair.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” he said brokenly. “Dear God, I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“Hurt me? But why would you—” Ali froze as understanding finally dawned. “That’s it? That day on the beach is what all of this distance has been about? Oh, Andre,” she said, starting to laugh and cry all at the same time in relief, in infinite love, stroking his hair, his cheek. “You didn’t hurt me—you would never
hurt
me. How do you manage to turn the most obvious things inside out?”

He closed his eyes. “I hurt you, Ali,” he said. “My God, I as good as raped you. There is no forgiveness for that.”

Ali gazed at him in wonder. “You truly believe that?”

“I—I wanted to force you to submit to my will. And God help me, I did.” He shuddered.

She cupped his face in her hands, her eyes burning into his, desperately wanting him to understand. “You didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do,” she said. “Andre—you didn’t force me and you didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s not how it sounded to me,” he said, looking away.

“Do you honestly think I would have cried out for anyone else in such a way? I never even screamed when Hadgi flayed the flesh off my back, Andre, and I’ve
never
felt such pain as that.” She smiled. “Pleasure is an entirely different matter.”

He shook his head soundlessly.

Ali gently stroked his face. “If you had done anything to cause me real physical pain, I would have let you know in a way that was unmistakable, believe me. I would never have let you continue. What you gave to me that day is something I will never forget.”

Andre met her eyes and the uncertainty, the guilt he was feeling, were laid bare. “Do you honestly mean it?”

“Of course I do.” Ali lowered her mouth and kissed him. “You’re a wonderful lover. I would far rather have that part of you, the part that really means it instead of the part that holds back.” She smoothed her hands down his muscled rib cage. “I like you much better when you’re my Andre, not the Andre you become when you’re trying to behave like a proper Englishman.”

“The last thing I am is a proper Englishman,” he said, a flash of humor in his eyes. “Just as the last thing you are is a proper Englishwoman,” he finished.

“Then stop treating me like one,” Ali said, cupping the outline of his erection and lightly squeezing.

It finished him off, as she knew it would. Within a moment he had her on the floor, his hands inside her chemise, her petticoat worked up around her waist.

“Ali, God…” he whispered, his mouth taking her breasts in a frantic suckling, squeezing them until she winced, his hands kneading her buttocks, his fingers wasting no time slipping into her folds, touching her with the old frenzy, causing Ali to buck underneath him in delirious pleasure.

“Better,” she managed to say. “Oh, much better. And under the starchy old duke’s desk is best yet.”

Andre choked with laughter, then pulled her drawers off in one swift movement and flung them behind him. “Then let him watch this,” he said, positioning himself to enter her. “Because I’m going to exorcise his ghost once and for all.”

He christened Ali, the rug, the room, and Sutherby in one almighty storm of lovemaking that he never expected to occur under that particular roof. It was as much an act of vindication as anything else. Ali, bless her, made it easy.