Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Page 23

  With visible effort, she lowered her hands and faced her mother squarely.

  “Aye, Mother. I’d do anything to have those years back, to know myself a sane and godly woman, with some rational explanation for all of it. I’ve prayed for that, begged for it, done everything I can to induce it, and all in vain. Without my memory, I’m half a person. I’ve learned to survive it. What choice do I have?”

  “Ye have a choice now, little bird,” Catriona whispered. “For I too know Faerie magick. I can undo the spell.”

  Linnet stared at her, eyes burning like candles in her stark features. “In the name of all that’s holy...How?”

  “Goddess magick is sex-linked, aye? And Morrigan’s magick flows from the Goddess. Ye were bespelled as a maid. To lift the spell, ye must alter that state.” Catriona’s rosebud lips curved. “And what better time than Midsummer Night? Ye must sacrifice yer maidenhead to the Goddess, take a lover tonight before the sacred fire and regain all ye’ve lost.”

  In the silence that followed, Zamiel’s heart pounded like a drum against the cage of his ribs. Surrender the virtue she prized so highly to the pagan Goddess of the Midsummer fires?

  Linnet could never accede to such a shocking prospect. She’d think herself damned for it.

  Still, if she could bring herself to it, what if the scheme worked? He knew precious little of the Goddess, but he understood well enough the sacred power of intercourse. Over the eons, countless mortal cultures had drawn upon it to worship their gods.

  And if it did work...if Linnet did, improbably, choose to take a lover...whom else would she choose but himself?

  Zamiel’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed desperately. In all the millennia of his existence, he’d never wanted anything the way he yearned for this. The mere thought sent a tingling rush of blood straight to his cock. Beneath the concealing water, he hardened to aching stiffness.

  But it was impossible. If he gave in to his heart’s desire and took her to bed—his beloved Linnet—he would lose his immortality. He would fall.

  If Linnet wished to break the spell, she must choose another lover.

  The thought darkened his vision. His blood simmered with the prelude to an angel’s killing rage.

  Around him, the steaming waters began to bubble gently, glowing with pearlescent light. He closed his eyes to conceal the angel fire rising in their depths. These telltale manifestations of divinity were new developments—or were they? Perhaps, before Linnet, he’d simply never cared enough about anything to exert them.

  Dimly, through the gentle music of water trickling from the pipes, Linnet spoke. “I can’t worship yer Goddess, Mother, nor cavort before yer pagan fires. If ye’ve turned against the Christian faith after the living hell my father—I mean Glencross—put ye through, I don’t judge ye for it. But that path will never be mine.”

  Within him, the white heat of his dangerous rage began to cool. Cautiously, Zamiel slitted his eyes to find the angel fire subsiding. Catriona stood, simmering with frustration, before her obstinate daughter. But Linnet lifted her chin and stared her down.

  Her mother sighed.

  “Ye have yer father’s stubbornness—that pigheaded Tudor pride. Think on what I’ve told ye, aye? They’ll nay light the fires until the moon’s high. Ye’d be welcome there. Ye’d be whole, lass, restored and renewed. Think well before ye cast that aside.”

  He waited for her rejection. To his surprise, Linnet said nothing.

  With a graceful sweep of saffron skirts, Catriona Norwood glided from the caldarium, her footfalls whispering on the mosaic floor. Looking troubled, Linnet watched her go.

  In turn, Zamiel watched his beloved, heart aching. He burned to reveal himself, go to her, ease her suffering. But he knew what would result, with her so vulnerable, with him naked and fully roused.

  His outflung hands clenched the rim of the bath, the wet stones slippery under his bare palms, to anchor himself in place.

  Linnet drifted around the sunken pool. Frowning, deep in thought, she slipped off one sandal and dipped her slim toes in the water. At once her brow smoothed, a look of astonishment spreading over her pensive face.

  She glanced over her shoulder, as though to ensure she was truly alone. Swiftly then, she loosened the laces of her seafoam gown. Unable for his very life to look away, anticipation gripped his chest and tightened his loins.

  She let the gown slither to the floor, with an unconscious sensuality that obliterated every thought in his head.

  The long curves of her naked form were the essence of grace. Beneath the delicate round of her shoulders, her creamy breasts swelled full and proud, crowned with coral nipples ripe as berries. Made for a man’s touch, made to be weighed in his palms, made to be licked and suckled until she melted in his arms.

  Beneath the narrow dip of her waist, her hips flared, lush and voluptuous. A crime to hide those curves beneath the stiffened petticoats of Tudor fashion.

  He caught a bare glimpse of the soft pink petals that guarded her maiden’s secrets, denuded of hair like a proper lady. Then she sank into the depths. The steaming water rose around her, lifting her breasts until they bobbed like apples. Water lapped at her luscious nipples. The sight was so erotic that he groaned.

  She stiffened like a startled deer and sank into the water to her chin.

  “Who’s there?” she called, bold and challenging. This was a woman who knew what it was to be hunted.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, leaning to peer around the pillar. He too stayed submerged, both from respect for her modesty and to conceal his jutting length.

  Her breath snared in her lungs as her golden eyes widened. She stared at him, dark curls spread like seaweed around her, while the most extraordinary procession of emotions flitted across her changeable face. Embarrassment, outrage, relief—at least he was no assassin. Then a surprising flicker of amusement, quickly hidden.

  “I’d rebuke ye for eavesdropping,” she sighed, “but what would be the point? Ye truly are the most impossible creature.”

  “I’d say I was sorry.” Submerged, he glided toward her. “But that would be a lie.”

  * * *

  Linnet’s heart raced as he swam slowly toward her, sinewed arms parting the water. His jet-black hair was sleek as an otter’s, his violet eyes lidded with the same heat-induced languor stealing through her.

  Yet the clouded water couldn’t conceal the lean, supple strength she recalled so vividly from the day she’d stripped him to tend the wound he’d taken in her defense. And the lazy smile that curved his lips was pure seduction.

  Any woman who cared a particle for her virtue would affect a prudent retreat. But she couldn’t flee, not without giving him as thorough a view of her body from the rear as he’d undoubtedly enjoyed from the front. She’d always been overly conscious of her indecently round bottom.

  Besides, she didn’t wish to leave—so long as he kept his distance.

  “I suppose ye heard all of it?” She strove for a natural tone. “My mother’s so-called counsel? I’m to overthrow the Tudors, renounce my religion and worship her pagan Goddess before the festival fires.”

  “I heard.” He glided closer, hair slick as oil as it swirled around him.

  “And so?” She pressed her back against the wall and hugged her chest for modesty’s sake. “Ye’re an angel, an emissary from Heaven. What counsel would ye offer?”

  “I’d tell you it’s folly.” He closed in. “Unless...”

  “Unless?” She put out a hand, warning him to keep his distance. Her fingers brushed the slick plane of his chest.

  Her hand tingled, tendrils of sensation racing up her arm. He was vibrant with contained energy, dangerous and unpredictable as a bolt of lightning.

  His voice deepened. “Unless you’re planning to take me as your lover.”

  She should be shocked to her core. Instead, low in her belly, the wicked heat of arousal flickered and burst into flame.

  Her ragged inhalation
echoed from the damp walls. Tracing her lips with her tongue, she whispered, “Ye know I can’t do that.”

  Her palm slid across his chest as he closed the distance between them. His arms rose to bridge the wall on either side, trapping her without touching her. His eyes gleamed, dark with promise.

  “Why not?” he murmured, close enough to kiss. “You want to regain what you’ve lost, don’t you? And we both know what lies between us.”

  Her heart fluttered. Had he guessed her secret? Did he know she loved him?

  “What—what lies between us?”

  His eyes hooded. “You want me in your bed, Linnet. And I’ve come to realize I’ll gladly risk damnation for one night in yours.”

  As she gazed into his shuttered face, wreathed in steam, she could almost see the crown of black flames like a dark halo around him, the shadow of black wings mantling behind.

  Angel of Death. Son of Lucifer. And he was nearly in her arms.

  Still he held himself carefully apart, not touching her. He’d rid himself of those accursed gauntlets, yet he was still afraid of hurting her. Beneath her palm, his heart thundered, hard and fast and mortal.

  “Zamiel,” she whispered, her throat aching. She touched the faint scar on his shoulder, long healed, the sword-thrust he’d taken in her defense. Incurred only days ago, by her reckoning, yet months had passed in the world beyond.

  Gently she traced the scar, and he shivered like a man fevered beneath her light touch. Her fingers explored this latest evidence of the magick that had enveloped every aspect of her life, stolen her sense of self, made her question her purpose and her choices.

  Slowly her other hand lifted. Now she stood, hands resting on his shoulders, their bodies so close she could feel him quivering with tension. So close her nipples grazed his chest, sending twin bolts of sensation zinging through her, all the way to the molten heat between her legs.

  He closed his eyes and groaned.

  “My world’s turned upside down,” she whispered, hands sliding along the sleek muscled length of his arms. Gooseflesh rose beneath her touch. “I can’t even pray for guidance. In this ungodly place, ye’re the only god I know.”

  Gripping his forearms, she tugged to lift his hands from the stone. Stubborn, he anchored himself in place. A line appeared between his dark brows.

  Her teeth nipped her lower lip. “Are ye still afraid to touch me, Zamiel? Don’t ye want me?”

  He growled softly, a subterranean noise that sent a shiver scudding down her nape. His eyes opened, and her breath snared at the pale lavender shimmer in their depths. The silver glow of angel fire smoldered, latent but still dangerous.

  “I’m holding back for your own protection,” he gritted. “For the love of Heaven, don’t tempt me.”

  “Ye can’t hurt me!” She tugged harder, but his forearms were corded steel beneath her grip, as though he’d bolted his hands to the wall. “Don’t ye realize that, ye bloody-minded imp of a man?”

  He was still holding back, always holding back, even when she stood naked in his arms. And the slow pulse of passion was throbbing between her thighs. Seized by overwhelming frustration, she gripped his sleek black head in her palms and kissed him.

  At first he reared back, but he wouldn’t release the stone—still absurdly afraid he would hurt her. Ruthlessly she pressed her advantage, kissing him with all the thwarted hunger and despair and exhilaration that had simmered between them since the day they’d met.

  When he moaned against her mouth, she slipped her tongue into the slick inferno of his. The tangy honeyed bite of mead and summer apples enveloped her, infused with the fiery heat that was Zamiel.

  Hell-bent on rousing a response, she swirled her tongue boldly around his. He met her kiss for kiss, the heat between them blazing, but still held his body desperately apart. Maddened by his restraint, she pressed closer. Her breasts grazed his chest. The slide of wet skin against her sensitive nipples made her moan into his mouth.

  But the nudge of his stiffened arousal against her belly stilled her. Virgin though she was, she knew enough male physiology to realize that whatever held him back, lack of desire had naught to do with it.

  “By the True Creator,” he said, low and husky. The walls trembled around them, and somewhere she heard stone crack. “How much restraint do you think I have? I’m aching to be inside you. But we can’t.”

  “Why not, if we both want it?”

  Unable to hold back, she rubbed herself against him, hungry for the delicious gliding friction against her nipples, the hard jutting length against her belly. Beneath the water, her Venus mound pulsed hot and swollen, tiny muscles in her womb clenched tight with wanting.

  Closing her eyes, she eased one hand beneath the water. Her fingers slid down the flat plane of his abdomen. He sucked in his breath.

  “Linnet...please...”

  When her fingers grazed his straining length, silken skin stretched over tensile flesh, they both gasped. Seizing her lip between her teeth, she wrapped her fingers carefully around his manhood.

  Gentle Mother, he was so large. How could he ever fit that inside her? Her hand glided down his shaft, all the way to the base, then back, finding the swollen knob at the tip. Her fingers swirled around it in a shy caress, then closed around his length.

  Rigid and straining, he arched into her hand. “Harder.”

  Fascinated by his response, she complied, driven nearly mad by the heavy beat throbbing between her legs. If he felt half what she did, no wonder he was thrusting into her hand, his breath harsh and ragged beneath the rhythmic slosh of water against stone.

  She opened her eyes to steal a glimpse at him—head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he breathed hard through his teeth, like a man in agony.

  If he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t take her, perhaps he’d let her pleasure him.

  The thought excited her beyond bearing. Flowing moisture coated her channel until she was slick and hot inside. If only she dared touch herself there, beneath the waves, just as she touched him. She ached for him there so excruciatingly. He need never even know...

  Her free hand had just grazed her swollen folds when his eyes opened. A lavender glow streamed from his gaze, transforming his fine-chiseled face to a sculpture of uncanny beauty. When he spoke, his voice too was transformed, rich and resonant with his divine essence.

  “Say the words.”

  Aroused beyond bearing, she was still embarrassed to be caught with her hand between her legs like a perfect wanton. “Ah...what words?”

  “Linnet.” Tenderly his lips curled. “Tell me you love me.”

  Her first reaction was relief. So he knows.

  For one befuddled moment, she very nearly told him.

  But, for a critical instant, a jumble of confused thoughts made her hesitate. So she loved him. Say she told him. Then what?

  They could never be together for more than a flicker of time. He must either return to Heaven or descend to Hell. She’d be left to repair her damaged name, discharge her cold duty, make her penance if she could. Could God even forgive such a sin, that she coveted what was His?

  Admit she loved Zamiel, and nothing lay ahead but heartbreak.

  “Let’s—let’s not confuse the matter, aye?” Abashed, she released him and stepped back. “This was only...I just wanted...”

  His eyes darkened as the unbearable light receded from his gaze. She backed away until her spine brushed the wall, making her stumble. The movement raised her from the water, exposing her breasts with their swollen nipples to his gaze. Reflexively, her arms rose to cover herself.

  “So I’m nothing more than a quick romp, is that it?” he said fiercely. “An easy mark? A ready cock to break your spell?”

  “I never said—”

  “If that’s all you want, I can surely oblige you. I’d hate to disappoint a queen.”

  Releasing the wall, he gripped her shoulders and hauled her toward him.

  The preternatural heat of his
palms seared into her. Even now, she didn’t fear him. Her hands fisted against his chest, but she was kissing him back, shock after shock rolling through her. He pressed her against him, her breasts crushed against his chest. His stiffened organ lodged between her parted thighs.

  Her sex melted and ran like butter, the sizzling friction against her sensitized flesh sending a breathless tension spiraling through her. Trapped between his body and the wall at her back, wet stone slick beneath her feet, she clutched his shoulders for balance.

  His hands slid down her naked back to grip her buttocks and lift her. Floating, she twined her legs around him. He rubbed against her throbbing channel, the friction beautiful, exactly where she needed it. The movement raised her breasts from the water, as though she offered herself for his attention.

  Still holding her suspended in his firm grip, he bent to nuzzle her exposed nipples. His tongue danced like a flame over the tender nubbins. Every flicker of contact sent delightful sparks of pleasure arrowing through her.

  “Do you like this?” he growled against her skin. “Am I what you expected?”

  “Zamiel,” she whispered, raising herself to his mouth. “Don’t stop.”

  His mouth closed around her swollen nipples, suckling, grazing with his teeth, until the spiraling need drove her mad. She arched into him and rocked against him, eyes closed, her own sobbing breaths noisy in her ears.

  With a muttered oath, he lifted her to the pool’s rim and spread her wide. Beyond shame, she looked down at him, his bare hands resting on her thighs. Without the heavy gauntlets, they were as graceful as the rest of him, the slender long-fingered hands of a master musician—but so hot.

  The hands of an angel who worshipped God with music. Hands that had never known the joy of touch, only death.

  Hands that were spreading her, relentless, to expose her deep pink slit, flushed with heat and pouting with pleasure.

  Overcome, she tried to cover herself, to close her thighs. But he was unyielding, standing still between her legs, gazing at her woman’s secrets. She wished she could see his face, but curtains of wet hair slithered forward to conceal it. Whatever remained of her modesty was glad for it.