On a Long Ago Night (30 page)

her head and laughed at the stars exploding above. This was

heaven, the paradise garden of the Persian and Moorish poets. Her

laughter was full of joy, and of amusement at the innocent girl who

had sat in a chilly English library reading those poems with

wonder, but with no understanding of what the words tried to

convey.

How could she have known? How?

That girl was gone, and the woman in the garden was blind

with desire and delight. Her laughter turned into a long gasp of

pleasure as another climax took her. Her back arched and Diego

grasped her hips, thrusting up as he pulled her down hard on his

erection, his climax fallowing hers by only a moment.

They ended up stretched out side by side on the tiles by the

fountain. There was a small crack in the fountain basin, so the

ground beneath her was slightly damp from the constant small

drip. Honoria didn't mind. She was in Diego's arms and she didn't

mind anything while she was there. Her world had spiraled tightly

into the circle of Diego's arms. Day into night and into day again.

"You are," he said, brushing a hand through her tangled

damp hair, "fantastic."

His face was close enough to hers that she saw him clearly,

though his handsome features were shadowed and shaded by the

darkness, and silvered by moonlight. She did not mistake the

intensity in the depths of his honey gold eyes. She did not expect

him to speak words of love, but she basked in the warmth of his

gaze, and drank in whatever words of praise or affection he had to

offer.

She did not dare to offer him words in reply. She could not

bear to speak tonight. She feared the truth about how he made her

feel would spill out if even one word were to escape
—
how she'd

come to feel about him. He looked as if he wanted her to speak. As

though

he

waited

for

something
—
praise,

reassurance,

commitment? She had given him everything, but she could not give

him words. Words were too important to her; words made things

real. If she spoke what was in her heart, she was certain her heart

would be broken when this time out of time came to an end
.

Because it would come to an end
—
she was not so besotted

not to realize that forever wasn't possible between her and her

corsair. But not yet, she prayed. Please, not yet
.

She traced a finger slowly around his full lips, then drew his

mouth to hers for a long, slow kiss. As their tongues speared and

circled, the heat began to build inside her again. Deep in her belly

the sweet liquid ache centered, then spread. Her thighs opened like

a blossom at the merest touch of his hand. The bud within the

intimate folds of flesh was already swollen and throbbing. It took

but the slightest pressure from the pad of his thumb against it to

send an orgasm jolting through her. Her muscles stiffened and she

clung to him as he coaxed a second flash of intense pleasure from

her, and another. She was weeping when he entered her again,

awash in a world of passion, where there were no words and none

were needed.

After that they slept for a while under the stars, exhausted,

limbs entangled, with her long hair covering them like a blanket.

When she awoke the moon was still high, and she remembered that

there were words that she
could
give him
.

It took some effort to get him to wake. She thought he looked

like a ravished angel when he finally opened his eyes and sat up

with a yawn. That she was responsible for his dissolute condition

pleased her no end. She put out a hand and he helped her to her

feet. She giggled when she realized that she could barely stand. She

was weak, and not a little sore, from all that lovemaking, but she

didn't mind a bit. She was still laughing as she snatched up a white

silk caftan. First she put on the spectacles she'd dropped on the pile

of cloth, then pulled the caftan on over her head. The nearly sheer

silk was an erotic caress against her skin. As her head emerged

from the neck of the caftan, she saw that Diego had pulled on his

robe. The way he belted it on left most of his chest bare. She

marveled at how exciting she found the glimpse of skin framed in

the long vee formed by the edges of the robe. She could not get

enough of the man.

"Come," she said, reaching a hand out to him. "There's

something you wanted me to do, remember?" He looked confused

as she led him toward the house. "A letter to be read," she

reminded him.

A light smiled out from the high lattice window of his work

room, catching them in a square of illumination. She could just

make out her lover's features by squinting hard. Diego looked as

though he didn't understand her for a moment, then he nodded. It

pained her that he looked as if he was waking from a dream. She

sighed, but was comforted by his arm coming around her

shoulders.

They were still arm in arm when they walked into the work

room. She froze in the doorway when she saw the people waiting

within. Diego's arm tightened around her.

He breathed a curse that was also a name. "Ibrahim Rais."

A white figure rose up from the chair behind the table. "My

son," a deep voice intoned sadly. "I fear that you have been trying

to escape me."

There really was no escape, Honoria knew. Oh, she could have

jumped out a window and run off somewhere, but in the end she

would have had to explain why to her father. She was as trapped

now by her father's expectations as she had always been. Trapped

by circumstances, history, duty, and habit, too, she supposed.

Honoria always did what was proper. She was used to attending

and participating in ceremonies of one form or another. Whether it

be lending her countenance to the christening of village children on

the family estate, or wearing a coronet at the Queen's coronation—

or marching down the aisle at her own wedding, she always did

what was expected and correct. What else could she, the heir of the

Pyneham line, do but put on the shimmering silver-gray gown

Maggie chose for her, let the family diamonds be clasped at her

throat, and walk with proud dignity into the music room?

She brought Huseby with her. If she must face this ordeal,

she was determined to do one unaccustomed thing—though it had

taken a short, sharp argument to get her maid to agree to stand with

her as maid of honor.

"You're my best friend," she had finally argued. "After all

we've been through together, you can do this as well. Please."

Huseby didn't agree until the butler knocked firmly on the

door and said His Grace demanded Honoria's presence right now.

"I suppose I can't let you face the Spaniard alone," she said.

Her father was waiting by the music room door when the

butler opened it and bowed them inside. He handed her the bouquet

of white and yellow roses she'd dropped in the library. Habit kept

Honoria's spine straight, her head high, and her steps stately and

dignified as she advanced on her father's arm between a row of

chairs, with Huseby walking slowly ahead of them. She was aware

of a great many more flowers in baskets and vases, resting on every

surface in the room. The room was full of people, but she saw none

of them even though she was defiantly wearing her spectacles. She

had no idea where they'd come from, and didn't care. The only

person she was aware of was the large man who stood next to the

black-clad vicar in a spot precisely between the two tall French

windows. The windows were not of stained glass, yet Honoria felt

the chapel-like atmosphere of the place, and for the first time her

knees began to wobble with nerves. Her stomach clenched and her

breathing grew shallow.

This was really going to happen.

This was really going to happen!

Dear God, this was really going to—

To the devil with duty and habit! she thought wildly, and

would have hiked up her skirts and run like the wind, if James

Marbury had not appeared suddenly before her. He was taking her

from her father and gazing steadily into her eyes. She wasn't sure if

he gave her strength or turned her into a complete coward, but she

did go with him to stand before Reverend Menzies. James's hand

over hers was large, strong and warm. Huseby took the roses from

her.

Honoria almost laughed when she saw the sour look on the

minister's face. James noticed the minister's annoyed look as well,

and he and Honoria shared an amused glance. "And I thought you

would be the one in a tearing fury," James whispered to her in

Arabic.

Reverend Menzies turned a sharp glower on James, and

looked as if he was about to retort. Then he cleared his throat,

waved them to stand directly in front of him, and intoned, "Dearly

beloved…"

Honoria looked at James, ignoring the ceremony meant to

join them together as man and wife. The concept was patently

ridiculous, despite being legally and religiously binding. All she

wanted to do was get him alone and wring his true purpose for this

farce out of him. But all she could do with her father watching was

meekly reply, "I will" to the vows to love, honor and obey. She was

forsworn even as she spoke, but this was not the time or place to

point out her insincerity. Besides, she kept slipping into the fantasy,

the falsehood, the foolishness of looking into honey gold eyes and

believing she was a beloved and cherished young bride.

That helped get her through the ceremony, until the moment

came when Reverend Menzies said, "You may now kiss the bride."

James had sworn to himself not to do anything to frighten or

upset Honoria, but when it came to kissing her, he couldn't stop the

instinct to take her in his arms and cover her mouth hungrily with

his. Whether her lips opened beneath his with surprise or desire

held no importance to him. Her hands moved to his shoulders. For

a moment she tried to fend him off, then her fingers clutched his

coat, dug into his shoulders, and pulled him to her. The heat of

contact flashed through him, the softness of her lips enticed and

invited. The satin of her dress was smooth beneath his hand as he

caressed the long length of her back, feeling her arch against his

palm. She was a creature of fire clothed in silver, like a

marvelously wrapped present waiting to be opened. She was his

and his alone. He had only to strip away the trappings and—

"Ahem."

He was vaguely aware of restless murmuring behind them,

then far more aware of the sudden withdrawal of the woman in his

arms. She had heard and reacted to those faceless others, when

James wanted her attention to be completely centered on himself!

Her standing in society was more important to her than he could

ever be.

"Excuse me, but I said you should kiss the bride, not ravish

her." The sanctimonious minister's voice was stern, but so soft that

only James and Honoria could hear him.

Honoria dropped her hands from James's shoulders as though

she'd been burned. Her head came up proudly.

James had no choice but to let her go, and take a step back.

He was afraid she would start fighting him if he did not. He felt

like such a fool, all of a sudden. His physical attraction to Honoria

was a very real thing, but his reasons for marrying her made no

sense to him anymore.

She didn't need him.

James forced his fears out of his mind. He wasn't sure if he

was more angry at her rejection, the minister's words, or all the