The Lady of Secrets (29 page)

As a healer, Meg knew this. She could offer no logical reason for it, but if someone was going to die, how often it happened in the predawn darkness. But coax them to remain until the sun rose and the shadows of death would disperse.

Blackwood’s condition had not changed, but Meg lay with her head pressed to his heart, one arm sprawled across him as though by her physical presence and sheer will, she could prevent his soul from stealing away from her.

She needed to keep him alive until the light broke and then all would be well. An irrational hope, but it was all she had. She just needed to remain vigilant, stay awake.

But she was so exhausted. Her eyes grew heavy in spite of
her best efforts. They closed, but not to ease her into a place of restful darkness; instead, she entered a world of troubled dreams.

Nightmares of her mother stitching Blackwood up in a winding sheet, Cassandra mocking Meg with her laughter. Nightmares of Blackwood’s coffin being lowered into the earth while faceless members of the coven whirled around it in a mad dance, tossing handfuls of dirt into his grave.

And nightmares that once again pulled her back to that square where coarse men piled up the faggots of wood around the terrified girl while others restrained the frantic boy.

“Maidred!”

The boy’s sobs tore at Meg. She wanted to go to him, but the girl needed her more. The pyre had been lit, the flames licking upward while Maidred Brody screamed.

“For the love of God, help!”

But as Meg found her way forward, Maidred shook her head. “No, it’s too late for me. Help him. Save my brother. Stop him from—”

She writhed in pain as the fire engulfed her.

“Save Robbie. Promise me.”

“I promise. I promise,” Meg muttered over and over until the sound of her own voice jarred her awake. She was disoriented for a moment, not knowing where she was or what was happening.

Memory of recent events returned to her in a rush and she groped for Blackwood, only to find the bed beside her empty.

She bolted upright, her heart thudding in panic. She swept her hair from her face, her gaze darting about the room. The fire had gone out and so had the candles, but the gray light of early morning spilled through the open shutters.

Blackwood stood silhouetted in the window, peering out
while he wolfed down a slab of bread. And he was stark naked.

Meg’s indrawn breath squeaked out of her. Blackwood turned around and wiped a dribble of honey off his chin.

“Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet, but I needed to piss so bad, I thought my gut would burst and then I was starving.”

He was starving? Meg struggled up onto her elbows, staring at him in disbelief. He was starving. He was eating bread and honey. He was … not dead.

Her gaze traveled from his mop of disheveled hair, to the coarser hairs shadowing his broad chest, to his lean pale hips, down the length of his sinewy legs and then back up, riveting on his erection.

Definitely not dead.

She should have averted her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to stop staring. Her chest tightened with a relief so sharp, it was painful.

Blackwood shoved the last hunk of bread into his mouth. “Sorry for that,” he mumbled, gesturing toward his engorged cock. “It’s just something that happens in the morning. I have no control over it.”

It was his grin that overset Meg, transformed her relief into red-hot fury.

“Damn you!”

She flailed about for something to throw at him and found only the pillows. She fired them one after the other. He dodged them easily, but at least her assault wiped the grin from his face.

He regarded her with an expression of aggrieved innocence. “What have I done now? I thought you would be glad to see me recovered.”

“Glad?” she shrieked. “Why would I be glad? I only spent all of last night in hell, fighting to keep you alive, having n-nightmares about you in your grave. Only now you are all right and instead of waking me up to tell me, you j-just get up and relieve yourself and—and break your fast. And you’re naked!”

Armagil looked about him until he found his shirt. He struggled into it, the bottom of the linen skimming his thighs. Meg’s throat clogged, her fury spent. Hot tears cascaded down her cheeks.

“Nay, sweetheart, don’t be doing that.” The rope springs of the bed creaked as he clambered on the mattress beside her.

Meg scrambled to the opposite side of the bed, but there was no escaping him. He pulled her gently but firmly into his arms. Meg tried to fend him off, but she had neither the strength nor the will to resist him.

She collapsed, sobbing against his chest. “The—the d-devil take you, Armagil Blackwood.”

“Aye, very likely he will, but not for a while longer, thanks to you. Now hush.” He rocked her in his arms, pressing kisses against the top of her head. “I am sorry I did not think to wake you, but you looked so exhausted and it was a shock to me, to find myself so well recovered. I needed a few moments to take it all in.”

He eased her away from him, scrubbing her tears away with his fingertips. “I never thought I could rejoice so much in such simple things as the raw morning air stinging my bare skin, good coarse bread rough upon my tongue, the sweet taste of honey. I didn’t expect to be alive this morning, Margaret. Or to care so much that I was.”

“Why must you do that—regard your life as though it is some trifle, easily discarded?”

“Because I am a very trifling fellow who has never been of use to anyone.”

“I think there are many people who would disagree with you.” Meg brushed her lips against his and whispered, “Especially me.”

He stared deep into her eyes for a long moment, then his mouth covered hers in a more demanding kiss. Meg’s lips parted before the onslaught, eagerly accepting the thrust of his tongue. His mouth tasted of heat and honey and the subtle tang of desire.

Blackwood’s lips caressed her face, kissing the damp tracks of her tears. Meg responded in kind, kissing his brow, his eyelids, his cheeks until her lips found his again.

She touched him, her hands roving over his chest, she rejoiced in the vitality coursing through him. But after all the cold, the terror, the darkness of last night, it wasn’t enough.

She needed to feel the warmth of his skin, the rush of his pulse, the steady beat of his heart. Her lips locked with his, she tugged at his shirt, trying to peel it off.

Blackwood’s hand encircled her wrist to stop her. Half-panting, half-laughing, he said, “God’s blood. First you complain of my nakedness. Now you seek to strip me. Will you never be satisfied, woman?”

“I could be. If you would oblige me.”

“Nay, Margaret. A miscreant who came so near death as I did ought to give some thought to reforming his wicked ways. Your reason has been unsettled by your fight to save my miserable life. You are tired and overwrought and I would be a villain to take advantage—”

“Then be a villain. Begin your reform tomorrow.”

She silenced him with another kiss. Before he could argue with her any further, she scrambled upright, stripping off her
chemise and tossing it aside. Shaking back her hair, she knelt over him on the bed.

Blackwood stared, as though he would devour her naked body. His lips parted, but no sound came for a moment.

“This is not fair, Margaret. First you restore me to health and now you would steal my breath away.”

“Aye, your breath, your very reason, and—”

Your heart.

She didn’t know where that thought came from and did her best to quell it. She reminded herself that this longing that pulsed through her had nothing to do with love, only desire and a celebration of triumph over death.

Meg straddled herself over his legs. Grabbing the ends of his shirt, she pushed it above his hips. She touched the exposed length of his shaft. Blackwood groaned and closed his eyes.

She caressed him more boldly, marveling at her own recklessness. Perhaps it was partly born of the fear that her reason would return. She had spent far too much of her life being careful, overthinking everything. For once she just wanted to set free the passionate side of her nature she had so long repressed.

Aching with desire, she prepared to settle on top of him, take him inside of her. His eyes shot open.

“No!”

With a suddenness that startled her, he flipped her off of him and onto her back. He hovered over her, the dark expression in his eyes making her feel uncertain.

“N-no?” The heat of desire in her cheeks mingled with the burn of humiliation as she faltered, “Y-you truly don’t want me.”

He gave a choked laugh. “God’s blood, woman, I think it
is damned obvious how much I want you. But not hard and fast, like taking a doxy against an alehouse wall. That is not how I have dreamed of having you.”

“You … have dreamed of being with me?”

“Ever since I first laid eyes upon you. Even last night in the throes of my fever. Why else do you think I woke up so hard?”

“You said it was a natural thing, something that just happened.”

“So it is with you always in my head, enchanting me.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “In my thoughts, seducing me.” He kissed her cheek. “In my dreams, bewitching me.”

Enchanting? Seductive? Bewitching? Meg stared deep into his eyes. Those were not words she or anyone else would use to describe Margaret Wolfe. But he meant them.

Blackwood’s mouth hovered just above hers.

“Show me,” she pleaded. “Show me what you dreamed.”

He proceeded to do so, kissing and touching her with caresses that lingered and left her aching for more. Even when she would have kissed him fiercely, seeking to hasten their coupling, he refused to allow it.

Seizing both wrists, he pinned them over her head with one hand, while with the other he continued to explore her as though he meant to learn every inch of her. Meg panted and writhed beneath his touch, feeling as though Blackwood now knew her body better than she did herself, every sensitive curve and hollow, every intimate spot, knew just how to arouse her to the brink of madness with his fingers, his lips.

When he released her to strip off his own shirt, Meg was already slick with need of him. He could tell just what he’d done, a slight hint of masculine triumph playing about his mouth as he dipped to kiss her again.

It was time to give him a taste of her own power. Meg had always been quick to learn and she demonstrated all he had just taught her, of caresses that teased, kisses that burned. When he finally entered her, Meg’s cry was a mingling of elation and relief. As they began to move as one, she lost herself in his gaze and discovered it was possible for one’s heart to race and be scarce able to breathe at the same time. As heat built between them, Meg closed her eyes at last, giving herself over to pure sensation, desire coiling to an intensity that was almost painful, culminating in a climax that throbbed through her whole body.

She felt Blackwood shudder and sensed the moment when he found his relief as well, and they collapsed, spent, into each other’s arms.

MEG DOZED, SPOONED AGAINST BLACKWOOD’S HARD BODY
, his arm draped possessively across her waist. The sun teased against her eyelids, warning her that the day was advancing, but she rolled away from it, burrowing her face against Blackwood’s chest.

Exhausted from their lovemaking, he was in the same state of delicious torpor as she was, drifting in and out of sleep.

Meg knew she ought to rouse herself. It was not her way to loll abed after the sun had risen, especially when there were still so many problems looming, her desperate need to find the witches’ coven and stop them before they caused any more harm, the alarming possibility that her mother was still alive and behind it all, her fears concerning Sir Patrick and his true identity.

But cradled in Blackwood’s arms, such troubles all seemed so far away, nothing that could not be dealt with later. She could not remember the last time she had felt so much at peace and so safe. She wanted to cling to this sense of contentment as long as possible.

Reason would rear its ugly head soon enough to chide her for reckless behavior. How often she had dispensed stern advice to the young girls on the island about giving themselves to a man too cheaply, the risks of being left scorned and heartbroken, the dangers of getting with child or even a case of the pox.

“You must take care not to let yourself be overcome with desire. There is no passion so strong, that reason and prudence should not be able to conquer it.”

Meg cringed. How pompous she must have sounded. Small wonder that many of those girls had paid no heed to her, likely guessing that Meg had never known true passion herself.

Even when she had taken Felipe for her lover, she had planned her surrender so carefully, seeking the experience as more of a rite of passage than out of any strong desire. He had been a kind and considerate man, but he had never seemed to mind or even notice her lukewarm response to his lovemaking.

She doubted that Blackwood would ever be satisfied with such tepid reactions to his prowess in bed. The thought caused Meg’s lips to curve into a smile. At times Armagil could seem so callous and coarse and yet he had been unexpectedly tender and so determined her pleasure should equal his own.