All excerpts Copyright © Shirley Martin.
By
S.A. Martin
© copyright April 2006, S.A. Martin
Cover art by Dan Skinner & Kat Richards, © copyright April 2006
ISBN 1-58608-905-6
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
"And don't forget to press our dresses so that we can visit Lady Dunreith tomorrow."
Morgana clenched her hand on the chairback. "I won't forget."
After her sisters left for the fair at Dornach, Morgana sank onto a rickety kitchen chair, thinking of all she must do this evening and wishing she could attend the fair. Her head propped on her chin, she sat there for a long time, ashamed of herself for her futile brooding, well aware that self-pity would not get her chores done. If she weren't the youngest, would her life be any different? After all, she and her sisters were triplets, only a few minutes separating their birth order. In the deepest despair of her soul, she felt it really was not fair. She was eighteen; she had a life to live. Morgana sighed, missing her mother, dead these many years. If only she could take her troubles to her father, but as usual, he had withdrawn to the library, his face buried in one of his books.
Her gaze drifted around the kitchen, a large room she kept spotless, like all the other rooms in this spacious but ramshackle house. But there was only so much she could do to maintain their home. A loose shutter banged in the wind, and she wished her father had the money to repair the shutters and crumbling stone walls outside. Why, one strong wind and she feared the house would fall apart.
Pots and pans hanging over the fireplace gleamed by the burning embers there, and strips of lit hickory bark cast wavy shadows across the flagstone floor. The floor was clean, the maple table shining with lemon wax, a wooden bowl of fragrant apples in the center. The cleaning and cooking kept her busy from dawn to dusk, the tasks never-ending. Even though her father was a lord, the family couldn't afford servants.
Just once, wouldn't it be nice if she could go to the Saturday night fair at Dornach, if she could meet other young people, hear the music of the band and visit all the stalls? What if she met a young man there who fell in love with her and asked her to marry him? She smiled at her fanciful thoughts and pushed herself to her feet, chiding herself for her foolish fantasies. Useless daydreaming would not get the dishes washed, her first chore for the evening. Then she must put the beans to soak overnight, press her sisters' dresses, and--
A knock on the door jolted her from her morose thoughts. Who could it be? No one ever came to visit at this late hour. Well, only one way to find out.
She opened the door, surprised to see an old woman with gray hair, dressed in black from head to toe, a black shawl tied across her chest. Her gray hair was twisted in a bun. "Come in," Morgana said, her puzzlement increasing.
"My name is Gwenith, and I'd like to know why you aren't at the fair," the woman asked, "instead of working in your father's kitchen?"
Morgana made a helpless gesture. "How can I go? I have nothing to wear, no money, and no way to get to the fair. Besides, I can't take a chance on my two sisters--Alana and Nola--seeing me there. If that happened, they would beat me senseless for leaving the house." She waved her hand around the kitchen. "Just look. I have to wash the dishes and sweep the floor, put the beans to soak. And you see those dresses slung over the chair? I have to press them for my sisters." She plucked at her shapeless brown dress, the cotton tattered and faded with countless washings. "Most important, I have nothing to wear."
The old woman pursed her lips. "If you could have new clothes for the fair, what would you choose?"
"Oh!" Morgana pressed her hands to her warm cheeks, overwhelmed at the thought of new clothes. Her imagination ran wild as she considered all the gowns she had always dreamed of. "A light blue satin dress and a dark blue cloak with shoes to match."
"Good choice. Light blue will go nicely with your blonde hair and blue eyes." Gwenith snapped her fingers. "Done!"
"Oh, my!" Morgana looked down at herself and gasped. The most beautiful dress enclosed her slender body, the lustrous material shimmering by the firelight. Its neckline fell slightly lower than what she normally wore but was still within the bounds of propriety. Its bodice revealed her nicely-rounded breasts and hugged her narrow waist, its soft folds falling from her hips, the hem skimming the floor. A dark blue satin cloak draped over her shoulders, fur-lined, for the weather was cool, and fastened with a shiny silver brooch at her throat. Dark blue satin slippers encased her small feet, the satin decorated with delicate gold embroidery.
"But how will I get there?" Morgana asked, reverting to her earlier despondency. "My sisters took the cart."
Gwenith stepped forward and opened the kitchen door. "Just look."
Beyond the kitchen door, a milk-white mare waited, its gold bridle and gold saddle sparkling in the moonlight. Morgana clapped her hands, her eyes brimming with tears of happiness. "My goodness!"
Gwenith handed her a white satin purse, its jingling sound a sure sign it held a few coins. "Now you can go to the fair. But you must not speak to anyone, least of all your sisters. And no matter how much attention the young men pay you, just ignore them."
Morgana frowned, a cold feeling deep in her stomach. "But the dishes, the dresses I must press--"
"Never mind that. When you come home, you will find all your work done for you." She smirked. "Yes, even your sisters--the ungrateful wretches--will find their clothes pressed." She wagged a finger at Morgana. "One more thing to remember. You must come home at midnight."
Her spirits sank. "But I have no timepiece. How will I know the time?"
"You will hear the bells toll the hour. As soon as the bells toll twelve times, come home straightaway. As you know, this is an all-night fair."
"Yes, of course." Wild elation made her heart beat fast, her skin tingle with happiness. Never had she thought to wear these lovely clothes, to attend the fair and see other young people. "Gwenith, how can I ever thank you for all you've done for me?"
"Tut, tut, child. Just go to the fair and have a good time. That's all the thanks I need."
Outside, Gwenith held the mare's bridle while Morgana mounted sidesaddle. Waving good-bye, she turned the horse in the direction of Dornach, several miles away. She trotted the horse for a short distance, then cantered on the rutted dirt road, along gently-rolling hills, the fields rich with springtime growth. Farmhouses, large and small, dotted the countryside, and sheep and cows slept in the fields. The fragrance of strawberries drifted her way, borne on a cool breeze that fluttered her gown around her ankles. A few clouds scudded in front of a full moon, but the air held no hint of rain. Lightning bugs flitted about, jewelling the cobalt sky. Excitement rose within her as she covered each mile, and it seemed as if her heart beat in rhythm with the horse's hoofbeats as she envisioned the fair and all the people she would see. Gwenith's restrictions tempered her happiness, for she wasn't allowed to talk to anyone, and certainly not flirt with any of the young men. She smiled, her face warming. She'd never flirted with a man and wouldn't know how, even if she had the chance. As she neared the fairgrounds, she heard the music, a melody echoed in her heart and soul, a happiness almost unbearable in its intensity.
Soon, she arrived at the fair, where music from a five-piece band greeted her at the entrance, and throngs of people crowded the grounds. She couldn't believe she was actually at the fair! Just look at all the colorful booths, as if each owner had tried to outdo the others. Here stood one with a bright red awning and gold fringes, then another awning with green stripes and matching green poles. These booths offered games and prizes, souvenirs and even a puppet show. Moving her horse among the throngs, she reached the puppet show and laughed in delight at the antics of Keelin and Leith, two storybook characters popular with the children of the kingdom. After the puppet show ended, she moved on to another booth, where one man was juggling five oranges, the spectators' eyes wide with fascination.
Men and women, young and old, crowded around her, their admiring glances as welcome as a rainbow after a thunderstorm. She spotted her sisters in the distance and was sorely tempted to trot her horse over their way but recalled Gwenith's admonition that she was not allowed to speak to anyone.
Noise and laughter filled her ears, the sounds a cheerful contrast to the silent loneliness of her days. Scents floated her way, of roasting meats and spiced apples, of women's perfume.
"Say, pretty lady, why have I never seen you here before?" A young man she guessed to be in his early twenties grinned up at her, his admiring expression a balm for her weary heart, something to remember in all her solitary days that would surely follow this night. She returned his smile but said nothing as she rode on, maneuvering her horse among the multitudes, hearing the band play so many familiar melodies in the background. She tapped her fingers to the beat of the music and hummed the songs, imagining herself in a magnificent ballroom, dancing with a handsome prince. She wanted to buy something for herself but couldn't decide what, so she just rode around the fair, taking in all the entertainment.
Morgana lost track of the time as she moved from one attraction to the next, each one more enticing than the last one. She wondered if she'd get to visit every booth here, for the fair covered over fifty acres, with more booths than she could count within the vast space. Accept that this is your last chance, your only chance to see everything at the fair. Despite her joy at being here, she fought the tears that threatened to spill. Tomorrow would come all too soon, another day of drudgery, of monotonous tasks that never ended. She struggled with her bitterness, mindful that she had no choice but to accept her fate and not wish for an unattainable goal. Things could be worse. She should always look on the bright side and never let depression drag her down. She had her health and a loving if neglectful father, a fine home even if it was in sad condition. Judging by all the admiring glances that came her way, she was apparently attractive. She didn't own a mirror, nor would her sisters permit her to use theirs.
She sensed that the men wanted to speak to her but guessed they were hesitant to do so, possibly because they were unsure of her rank. Several people murmured "princess" as she rode past all the stalls and she smiled to herself. Princess Morgana. She could dream, couldn't she?
Lost in enjoyment, at first she didn't hear the bells toll, but she stopped, counting the chimes. Twelve! An icy lump settled in her stomach, a disappointment as great as her earlier bliss. She turned the horse around and left the fair, cantering home. She stifled her tears the whole way; this would be the last time she'd visit the fair, never again to meet other young people, to hear the music and mingle among the populace, to smell the tempting fragrances and visit all the stalls. Tomorrow she'd return to her world of hard work and drudgery. But she'd had this one chance, a memory to wrap and hold in her mind, a treasure to retrieve and gaze at now and then, as one would study the portrait of a loved one.
The house came into view, a sprawling stone structure with shingles missing from its roof, the front door sagging. She caught the scent of night-blooming jasmine and other flowers that blossomed in the small garden close to the house, ones she tended to lovingly every day, along with the vegetable garden in back.
As she reached the front door and dismounted, the horse vanished, and she was clad in her old clothes again. She gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth as shock and disappointment washed over her. With a sigh, she lifted the latch at the back door to step into the kitchen. Well, what do you know! The dishes were done, the floor swept, the beans soaking in a pot, and most of all, her sisters' dresses were pressed, their hangers clinging from a peg on the wall.
Too excited to go to bed, she walked along the lit hallway to the parlor, where the embers in the stone fireplace gave off enough light to see by. She reached to the mantel for the tinder box, and striking flint against iron, lit two close to the sofa, burning whale oil. Seating herself on the sagging sofa, she gripped the book that waited for her on an end table and began to read. Her eyes burned with sleepiness, for she wasn't used to staying up this late, but she wanted to read a while before seeking her bed. A beautiful love story, she'd enjoyed the book for the past several nights in the few spare minutes she claimed her own, for it helped divert her from her own troubles. She handled the book with care, the pages loose and spotted with mildew. Like the rest of the house, the parlor had seen better days, the carpet threadbare, the draperies tattered and faded, their once lovely purple hue now a dull pink. The sofa was lumpy and uncomfortable, prompting her to continually change her position, interfering with her concentration on the story.
Alana and Nola burst into the parlor and slammed the door, heedless of their father sleeping and ending Morgana's precious moments of serene solitude. She set her book down and looked up at them, aware it would be fruitless to scold them for their insensitivity.
"Oh, Morgana," Nola gushed, "you should have seen the beautiful young woman at the fair! Such a grand lady!"
"On a white horse with a gold saddle and bridle," Alana chimed in. "Just like a princess. All the young men wanted to talk to her, but she would have nothing to do with them."
Nola gave her a hard look. "You did press our dresses, didn't you, because if you didn't--"
"They are pressed and hanging in the kitchen." A good enough reply, even if someone else had pressed them.
"Very well, then." Nola shot her a sullen look, as if sorry she'd been deprived of an argument or a chance to berate her sister.
Her sisters chatted about the fair for long minutes, as if to taunt Morgana with what they thought she had missed.
"But of course, you wouldn't understand how much fun it was," Alana derided, "seeing as you've never been to a fair."
"Nor likely ever to go to one," Nola added with a snicker. The two sisters giggled as they left the parlor and headed for their bedchambers, the stench of cheap perfume trailing behind them. The house was large enough that each sister had her own bedchamber, although Morgana's was a cubbyhole, a room formerly used for storage. The house had three stories, but to make the housework easier, Morgana had closed the doors to all the upstairs rooms and suggested the family use only the downstairs as their living quarters. Her sisters had protested, but for once, their father had supported her in this.
* * * *
"Papa!" Alana reached for a slice of fragrant oat bread, warm and fresh from the oven, at the kitchen table the following morning after church. She neither passed the wooden bread basket to others, nor did she return the cloth cover that kept the bread warm. The family ate all their meals in the kitchen, since the furniture in the dining room had been sold years ago. "You should have seen the grand lady at the fair last night. She wore the most beautiful clothes!"
"Yes!" Nola stirred a spoonful of honey into her steaming cinnamon tea. "Papa, we must have new clothes, too, Alana and I." She cast a dismissive glance at Morgana, who had just sat down after taking up a bowl of bean soup for everyone. "Please, Papa, please give us money for new dresses."
Morgana crushed her napkin in her lap. "Now just a minute. How can Papa buy you--"
"Girls," Kelwyn Muir scolded. "You know I can't afford to buy you new clothes. Why, we can't even afford servants." He glanced at Morgana, his expression of part guilt, part appreciation. "Your sister has to do all the work." Tall and thin, with gray hair sprinkled among the brown, he had the look of an esthetic, and indeed, that was partly true, for he spent most of the time in his library. His blue linen tunic, although mended in many places, was clean, the long sleeves rolled up past his elbow.
"But, Papa," Nola persisted. "Surely you can sell a few of your books. You've told us more than once those books are worth much money."
Not Papa's books! Morgana knew how much each volume meant to him, how much enjoyment he derived from his library. She'd like new clothes, too, she fretted, trying to stifle her resentment. She must dismiss the bitterness that dragged her down, must not surrender to the anguish that oftimes threatened to overwhelm her.
Kelwyn scratched his chin. "Well, I suppose I could sell a book or two."
Oh, no! Morgana clenched her hands in her lap, suppressing heated words that threatened to spill. Just once, why couldn't their father stand up her sisters?
"Oh, thank you, Papa!" Alana clapped her hands while Nola beamed with satisfaction, then directed a gloating expression at Morgana.
Morgana wanted to kick Nola's shins, not only for her smug expression, but also because of her sisters' careless disregard of their father's feelings.
Her father gave Morgana a warm and tender look, as if to say, Your turn is coming. Or did she read too much into his look?
Shortly after the midday meal--a light repast since it was Sunday--the two older sisters left to visit Lady Dunreith, giggling and chattering as they stepped into the family cart, headed down a narrow side road toward the Dunreith mansion.
After washing the dishes, Morgana found her father in his library, studying the rows and shelves of books, the volumes old, the parchment crackling, the titles scarcely readable. A wide multi-paned window permitted ample illumination, for the day was sunny with no clouds in sight. He looked her way as she entered the spacious but shabby room, where the once-thick carpet felt like thread beneath her heavy work shoes, and the draperies showed holes and patches, a blatant reminder of the family's poverty. He fingered one thick volume at the end of the middle row, a thoughtful expression on his face.
His hand lingered on the book. "Don't know which books to sell. They all mean so much to me."
A fresh spurt of indignation churned inside Morgana. "Then don't sell any, Papa. Alana and Nola don't need new clothes. They can make do with what they have."
"Ah, well," he said, sliding a book from the shelf, holding the others in place so they wouldn't fall to the floor. "It's the least I can do for them. But you, Morgana, I don't do nearly enough for you."
"Papa, I--"
"No, let me say it, daughter. Your turn is coming, I swear. Once your sisters are married..." The sentence remained unfinished, and she recognized that even if her sisters found husbands, it would change nothing for her. She would still be stuck in the house, cleaning, baking, sewing.
Her father sat down in an easy chair, the velvet worn, its cushion lopsided, the springs broken so that it made a creaking sound whenever he moved. He clutched the book in his hands as if it were a rare jewel, which it was, to him. "If only your mother were alive," he said with a look of deep sadness.
Would that change anything? Morgana fretted, for they would still be poor. She was only four when her mother had died, but a memory of soft hands and lavender water hovered in her mind. As much as she loved her father, she realized that he was weak. He should have put his foot down years ago, should have shown backbone instead of spoiling her sisters as he had done throughout the years, giving into their every wish and whim. Seeing that her father was lost in his reading, she left the room and made her way to the parlor to catch up on her mending. In vain, she struggled to suppress her bitterness, aware that dark thoughts would only drag her down.
Seeking a happy diversion, she recalled the fair last Saturday, the music and colorful stalls, the esteeming glances of the young men. Oh, she wished she could relive that time, yearning to get out more and meet other young people, not just for one night, but for all the years to come. Face it, she longed to leave the house, get out and see the rest of the world.
Excerpt from Night Shadows, by Shirley Martin
Chapter Six
Hundreds of blazing torches brightened the fair grounds as Stilo led Angharad
through the crowds. Angharad. He wondered if that was the tavern
scryer's real name, for he suspected she harbored secrets she would never reveal
to him . . . yet. Was she a criminal, running away from the law? An
abused wife, escaping a cruel husband? He'd give anything to know the mystery
that surrounded this beautiful woman with her auburn hair and green eyes, this
woman he ached to possess. In her emerald green dress with gold threads
running through it, her gold hoop ear rings and necklace, she had never looked
so lovely. He breathed in deeply of her lilac scent, a fragrance that tantalized
and lured him, but he fought the ensnarement. Tonight he would do the luring.
The first few stars glimmered in a sapphire sky, tree branches swaying
in the wind. Moonlight sparkled on the rippling river. A perfect
night for seduction.
Thankful he had ridden with the other bandregas to the sacred well recently,
he knew his powers were greater than they had ever been, that nothing was impossible
this night. Ah, the sacred well, whose waters had revived him, empowered
him, given him such mastery so that he could accomplish anything he wanted.
Throngs of people crowded the fair grounds, hundreds of men, women, and
children from all the outlying villages. Lovers strolled hand-in-hand,
and fathers carried young children on their shoulders. Vendors hawked souvenirs,
statuettes of the Goddess Talmora or ribbons and buttons commemorating the fair. Others
sold meat pies, spiced apples, and ale. A myriad of smells carried his
way, some of them pleasing but many of them carried a strong, spicy stench that
sickened him. All the fair goers were dressed in their brightest colors,
hues Stilo could see as vividly as if it were daytime. Voices filled the
air, young children yelling in excitement, friends calling to one another, or
performers shouting that their acts were about to begin.
Music drifted their way from the far end of the meadow, a wooden
platform that bordered the Nantosuelta River. >From where he stood,
Stilo craned his neck and saw a three-piece band on the stage, a guitarist and
a fiddler tuning their instruments, a bell-ringer adjusting his bells.
Angharad clutched his arm, her eyes wide with excitement. "Stilo! It's
been so long since I've danced." She pointed in the direction of the
music. "Let's go there."
He inclined his head. "Anything you want." Passion
stirred inside him, and he knew what he wanted, to have her under his spell,
so that she would desire no one but him.
With Angharad in tow, Stilo wended his way through the multitudes and headed
for the dancing area, past a booth where a juggler entertained the crowd, and
a puppet show in the adjoining booth, where dozens of wide-eyed children had
gathered with their parents to watch the antics of Etain and Cabell, two whimsical
characters popular with the children of Avador.
They reached the dancing area as the groups began to form, four couples
in each set, and Stilo led her to the far end, where three couples waited for
another to join them. The men and women were all clad in their holiday
apparel, the men in fine linen tunics, the women in cotton frocks with a silk
sash around their waists. A loud chord from the guitarist announced the
start of the dancing as the musicians played a well-known melody, The Love of
Alanna, a slow, plaintive song whose lyrics told of a village maiden who lost
her lover, killed in battle. The dancing began as the men and women swayed
and dipped, moving from one partner to the next person in their circle, clapping
their hands at the completion of the round. Then they stepped in the opposite
direction, following the same pattern, their footsteps echoing on the wood.
Stilo kept his gaze on Angharad with each movement, his every sense focused
on drawing her under his beguilement, so that she would want only him, but more
than that, oh, so much more. After tonight, she would belong to him, her
body to use for his pleasure, her mind to bend to his will. He noted her
eyes sparkling with delight, her luscious smile, those full lips he longed to
kiss, the sensuous swing of her body. Angharad. He wondered again
if that was her real name, but for now, he wouldn't dwell on that quandary, but
rather work his magic on her. Soon, she would be his alone, to keep or
discard, or share with another man. Two men and one woman–Angharad–in
bed. Ah, what a frolic that would be. Passionate images bombarded
him, his arousal at a peak. Breathing deeply, he struggled to suppress
his excitement.
Angharad would never want anyone but him, and certainly not Gaderian. A
spurt of anger knotted his stomach, and he resolved to forget about that vampire,
one who could no longer threaten his plans.
Angharad blinked her eyes and shook her head, as if she sensed he was casting
a spell on her. He deepened his concentration and reveled at the look of
longing when her eyes met his. His loins tightened, his body on fire until
he could think of nothing or no one but Angharad. Before the sun rose on
the morrow, she would be lying in his arms, satiated with passion, on fire to
join with him again and again.
No one else in their gathering perceived that he was bewitching his
prey, for throughout the years, he'd learned to perfect his magic, create
the illusion that all remained normal.
Two more slow dances followed, then the tempo of the music increased as
the band segued into another popular song, this one about a shipload of sailors
with one woman on board their vessel. The men and women clapped their hands
and stamped their feet, the women swaying their hips so provocatively that Stilo
was well-nigh driven to madness. His every thought centered on Angharad,
on lying with her body beneath his. He imagined her shed of clothes, as
if he could see her full breasts, those rose-tipped nipples, the tuft of hair
at the junction between her legs. His passion increased, and he forced
himself to think of other matters, other people, especially how he would get
the best of Gaderian. He clasped Angharad's hand as they met once more
in their rhythmic circuit, satisfied that her gaze was only for him. A
sexual hunger for her flooded his body, a desire too great to ignore. He
couldn't last much longer without taking her over to the bushes and making love
to her then and there. He wanted her–now, now, now!
* * *
While the music played and the dancers stepped to the beat, Fianna met
Stilo's gaze, his expression ardent and focused, as if she were the only woman
in the world . How handsome he was in his dark blue tunic, a red leather
belt studded with gold around his waist, his musk scent rather appealing. Gratified
she'd gotten such a good bargain on her new green dress, the fake gold necklace
, she knew she looked her best.
A disorientation dizzied her, and she almost lost her step, but Stilo tightened
his hold on her to prevent her from falling. She glanced around, at first
not sure where she was. Ah, she was dancing with Stilo and other men and
women, here at the fair grounds. Of course! Bright lights shimmered
in front of her eyes, and the music of a thousand violins played in her head. She
felt a pull, a dislocation of her senses, then a warm languor washed over her. She
was sinking, sinking, sinking into a maelstrom of desire, a longing that rendered
her helpless to think of anyone but this man who never took his gaze from her. She
teased and taunted him, giving him her most beguiling smile, certain she could
lure him into her web of enthrallment.
A sexual yearning overwhelmed her, a longing not to be denied. Forget
about Gaderian, she mused with a disdainful toss of her head. Before this
night was over, she'd be lying in Stilo's arms and know the true meaning of love,
the ultimate closeness between a man and a woman, that coupling she'd never experienced
but could only imagine. And for the Goddess's sake, she chided herself,
tell him your real name. Mustn't let him continue to call her Angharad
if she would spend the rest of her life with him. When would he ask her
to marry him? Tonight, she hoped. She couldn't wait to lie in his
arms, to feel his lips on hers. The music and dancers, the fair goers faded
in the background, so that nothing and no one existed but Stilo, this man who
would claim her for his own.
As the tempo of the music increased, Fianna swung her hips and thrust her
breasts out, flashing him her most seductive smile, her hair flinging in
wild disarray. The other dancers blurred in her vision, the rest of the
world shut out. Perspiration beaded her forehead and dampened her clothes,
whether from passion or the heat of the night, it didn't matter.
With a crescendo, the music stopped, the dancers flushed and breathing
heavily as couples stopped, to catch their breath and talk among themselves. Then
they left the dance grounds while the band started packing away their instruments. Overhead,
millions of stars glittered in the sky, and a full moon silvered the land. A
light breeze cooled her body and lifted her hair from her shoulders, her cotton
skirt billowing around her ankles. Her knees shook, every thought on Stilo
as he clasped her hand and led her back the way they had come. The fair
grounds stood near empty now, most of the crowds gone home.
He looked her way, an expression of longing in his eyes. "Come
with me. I want to have you alone."
Awash with desire, she leaned into his embrace. "Oh, yes!"
*
* *
His arm around her waist, Stilo led Fianna away from the meadow and east
toward the city, swept along with the other fairgoers also leaving the fairgrounds. They
eased their way through the mob, the crowds pushing and shoving around them.
"Where are we going?" she asked in dreamy speculation. She
wrapped her arm around his waist, unable to think of anything but having him
all to herself. At the same time, she felt as if she were floating in the
air, looking down at herself. A light breeze caressed her face and cooled
her body, lifting wisps of hair away from her forehead.
"We're going to my apartment, where I'll have you all to myself." Stilo
squeezed her waist, his fingers thick and blunt against her body, his musk scent
stronger than ever, combined with an aroma she couldn't identify, a smell pungent
and overpowering.
She leaned into his embrace, feeling lighter than a moonbeam, her brain
fuzzy and unfocused.
"Almost there, Angharad," Stilo murmured in her ear. Eventually
the crowds thinned, the mobs heading for their homes, until the cobblestone streets
became near empty, with only a few stragglers here and there, and the ubiquitous
vagrants tottering along. Past the shops and businesses, they approached
an area on the outskirts of the city, a street she knew as Granno's Way, where
mansions and splendid apartment buildings graced the long avenue.
She turned her head to look up at him. "You know, Angharad is
not my real name. You may call me Fianna Murtaugh, and that is my real
name. I took a different name since I ran away from home," she said,
then told him the story of her departure from Ros Creda and the circumstances
that forced her to leave her home and all that she loved.
"So you see," she said minutes later as they passed a statue
of Aventina, the river goddess, "no one from Ros Creda must know I'm
here in the capital."
"Ah." An expression of contemplation captured his face,
prompting her to wonder what was going through his mind. But the question
drifted away, obscured by the dizziness that imprisoned her.
Near a grassy park thick with magnificent oaks and bushes, they reached
his apartment building, an elegant stone edifice several stories high. Night-blooming
jasmine scented the air, and nightingales sang from the trees. Only a few
yards distant stood wooden benches set in a garden, where the apartment dwellers
gathered to enjoy the evening breeze.
After mounting the front steps, he released his hold on her waist and opened
the door to the building, where they stepped into an entranceway lit by numerous
oil lamps. A marble hallway stretched the length of the structure, with
apartments leading off from either side.
At the entrance stood a small enclosed room, capable of holding ten or
twelve people. Its doors stood wide open. Stilo eased her toward
the tiny room, and her steps slowed, a sensation of the unknown creeping over
her.
"Don't be frightened," he said, his voice low and gentle. "Haven't
you seen a moving cage before?"
"I've heard others speak of them, but I didn't know they looked like
this." Giddy and muzzy-headed, she entered the strange contraption
without a qualm, willing and longing to do anything he asked.
"Well, come on, then."
The small space boasted gold-colored walls with an oil lamp overhead and
murals on the wall of gods and goddesses.
With one hand, Stilo shut the doors, then made hand motions and muttered
a few strange words. Magic vibrated through the air, her skin tingling.
The contraption was moving! She looked from side to side, up and
down, while the cage conveyed them upwards, past the outside walls. Lost
in hazy confusion, she felt as if she were floating, floating, floating, up to
the sky, never to come down to earth.
Stilo slid his arm around her waist. "See, isn't this a clever
apparatus? We will soon arrive at my floor."
As he uttered those words, she felt the cage stop. Taking her by
the hand, Stilo led her onto the hallway, this one with branches leading to the
right and left. They took the hallway to the left, passing several doors,
and stopped at the fifth one down. He waved his hand again, and the door
swung open, revealing a magnificent apartment decorated in black and red, with
occasional white accents.
Fianna didn't like the colors, but she couldn't deny the room's opulence,
the furnishings that spoke of wealth and power. A wide window that stretched
the length of the wall greeted night's darkness and revealed a breathtaking view
of the river far to the west. Even from here, she could see its waters
glittering in the distance.
At the entrance, Stilo came to stand behind her, his hands cupping her
breasts, his body pressed against hers, leaving no doubt of his desire. He
bent to kiss her neck, and she leaned back into his embrace. And odd sensation
rippled through her, as though she were someone else observing herself. She
tried to throw off this uneasy feeling, this impression that she lurked somewhere
outside her body. Caught in a web of murky enchantment, she felt powerless
to fight the lure.
Stilo kicked the door shut behind him. He dropped his hands from
her breasts and eased her across the wide expanse of the living room, to another
door that led to the bedroom, in which a huge bed with a black silk bedspread
dominated the room.
He closed the door and stepped away from her, a sly smile on his face. His
gaze covered her, from her head to her feet, his look one of passionate wanting.
He nodded at her. "Now take off your clothes."
Excerpt from Forbidden Love, by Shirley Martin
Lisa closed her eyes as vivid
memories flooded her mind and teased her emotions. She
saw Owen as clearly as if he were standing beside her, or lying, she mused
with a rush of heat. Snuggling down on the sofa, she recalled his every
word, every gesture, every look that evening at the theater, but especially
at Elizabeth's.
To think they'd actually spent the night in the same house--in separate
beds! What if he'd come to her room? Would she have refused him? Never!
She ran her fingers through her hair, a thousand regrets churning inside
her. When she'd awakened the following morning, he'd already left! She
moved her hand up and down her thigh in absentminded little motions as a thousand
regrets taunted her. That night was the last she'd seen him, years, centuries
ago! Vaguely aware of her actions, she eased her hand tentatively over
her breast as she imagined Owen caressing her. A wave of heat captured
her, settling in her feminine core.
A knock at the door startled her, prompting her to sit upright, wondering
who in the world it could be. She stood and self-consciously smoothed her
hand over her wrapper, but unperturbed, she gave a little shrug. Most likely
it was Elizabeth or another friend.
She headed for the front door, her slippers scuffling on the marble floor
of the entrance hall, her robe swirling about her legs. Assuming a look
of nonchalance, she opened the door, and a rush of cold air swept into the room.
"Owen!" Surprise mingled with happiness, but she could
only stare.
"Lisa," he said with his heart-wrenching smile that made her
heart hammer in her chest and sent her spirits soaring. "I hope I
didn't disturb you, but you once mentioned that you stay up late."
He wore only his suit and waistcoat, the weather not so bitterly cold now. She
stared at him--the same Owen she remembered. His windblown hair fell across
his forehead, and even in his suit, he appeared so rugged, so wonderful, she
caught her breath, unable to speak.
"Shall I come in?" he asked with a hesitant expression. "Or
would you rather . . .?" He glanced inside the house, and she said
a silent prayer of thanks that William was away. Owen's gaze returned to
her, an indefinable look on his face. Breathing fast, she braced herself
against the door, unable to speak, taking in the sight of him.
"Lisa?"
Quickly, she collected her wits. "Of course, come in. You
didn't disturb me." What a lie; he was driving her out of her mind. He
stepped inside, and his eyes flicked over her, sending a fresh rush of heat throughout
her body. Never before had she felt this way about anyone; never
before had she experienced these emotions that drove every coherent thought from
her mind.
She became more conscious than ever of her casual attire as her imagination
carried her in a hundred different directions, and she didn't dare think of where
her deshabille might take them. She stifled her excitement, resolved
to project an insouciant image as she led him to the sitting room, where the
flames in the fireplace cast flickering shadows on their faces and on the walls.
His gaze made a wide sweep of the room before he turned back to her with
an inquisitive look. "Your husband . . ."
"Boston," she said with a nervous swallow. "Business
trip."
"I see."
And what did she see in his expression? Relief? Happiness? Or
was that only her imagination?
Lisa motioned toward the sofa. "Won't you sit down. And
can I get you something to drink? Brandy, perhaps?" Her restless
fingers plucked at the folds of her wrapper as her heart thudded against her
ribs, her legs trembling. She gripped the edge of a table but quickly let
go, lest she reveal her agitation.
"Nothing to drink, thank you." Owen retrieved a thin book
from his inner coat pocket and set it on the tilt top table. "I can't
stay. I wanted only to return your book. Recollect when I walked
you home from the reading group? I put your book in my pocket, and then
I forgot to give it to you."
"Oh, yes, I remember." As if she could ever forget! "But
you didn't have to make a special trip to return it. You could just bring
it to the next meeting."
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Their eyes
met and held, so many unspoken words in their communication. "That's
just it," he said after an uncomfortable silence. "I won't be
attending the meetings anymore."
"You won't?" she whispered in a wavering voice. The blood
drained from her face, and she propped herself against the table as a wave of
dizziness washed over her. "Why not, Owen?"
Grim-faced, he shrugged. "I have my reasons." His
look mellowed, his gaze caressing her body. He reached out to touch her
but let his hand fall to his side as his face assumed a mask of nonchalance. "This
is a busy time for me, you know, all this union business. And now that
spring is almost here--I hope!--I intend to do some work around my house and
yard, prune the
trees . . ."
Lisa nodded, afraid to speak. Combing her fingers through her hair,
she tried to hold back the tears, never in a million years willing to let him
see her heart was breaking. Later, after he left, she'd cry her heart out,
but not now, not in front of him. She released the strands of hair, and
silky locks brushed her shoulders and grazed her breasts.
"You have beautiful hair," he murmured. Tentative fingers
touched her hair, his gentle stroke as sensuous as a lover's caress.
"You like my hair?" With one quick, sinuous movement, she
shook her head, letting the strands cascade past her shoulders and down her back.
"Lisa!"
Within a heartbeat, she found herself enclosed in his arms, his body molded
to hers, as if they were part of the same whole. His lips, warm and demanding,
claimed hers. Shifting his position, he held her ever closer, his hands
playing across her back and down to her hips. He drew away to feather kisses
on her cheeks, behind her ears, her forehead, his warm breath fanning her skin.
"My darling Lisa!"
This was wonderful, beautiful, everything she'd ever imagined his kiss
could be, and so much more. Oh, so much more! To be held in his strong
arms, his lips on hers! Drifting in a dreamworld of new sensations, she
tightened her arms around him, drawing his mouth to hers again as she returned
his kisses with a passion she'd never imagined, no, not in her wildest fantasies.
She raised her hand to run her fingers through his hair, something she'd
dreamed of doing for the longest time. Her fingers trailed down to his
crisp collar, then up to the nape of his neck, then farther up to his hair again,
loving the taste, touch, and smell of him, the very essence of his being, everything
that made him the man she loved. Not caring if he'd think her a wanton,
she brushed her thigh against his. Her most secret part throbbed with longing,
a glorious torment.
"You don't know what you're doing to me!" he gasped.
"It's the same with me." How she wanted him!
Lisa reveled in his hard body close to hers--such a new, strange feeling,
more glorious than anything she'd ever imagined. She loved the tangy scent
of his shaving soap, the touch of his clean-shaven cheek next to hers. Her
fingers brushed across his back, and she found a strange comfort in the rough
texture of his wool suit and the play of his muscles, hard and firm, beneath
the pressure of her straying fingers.
Above all, she wished his caresses would go on forever. With an ache
that brought her to the edge of despair, she realized her wish could never come
true. The tears she'd tried so hard to restrain streamed down her cheeks.
"Don't cry, darling." He kissed her tears, then pressed
his mouth to the hollow of her throat. Effortlessly, he lifted her in his
arms and carried her to the sofa, where he cradled her close to his chest. His
lips were on hers again with a hungry insistence, while his hand moved purposely
from her waist to her hips, then all the way down her leg.
Easing her wrapper open, he found her breast. How she loved the steady,
deliberate movement of his hand that sent wave after wave of desire rippling
through her body. She arched her body closer to him, his touch, his kisses
so unbearably arousing she feared she'd go out of her mind. All coherent
thought left her, until only feeling remained as her fingers played along his
arm and up to his face, tracing its lines.
"Owen!"
As if snapped back to the moment, Owen raised her from him and eased her
aside. "What am I doing!"
Bewildered and hurt, she stared at him as her body and soul cried out for
him. Take me in your arms again, she silently cried. Never let me
go!
Owen stretched forward with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "This
is madness," he muttered. "Insanity." He spoke so quietly,
she had to strain her ears to catch his words. "You're another man's
wife. I have no right to you. And what about the shocked expressions
we get from the others in the reading group when I walk you home, or haven't
you noticed?" he asked sarcastically.
"Yes," she whispered. "I've seen their looks." Lisa
took a deep breath as fresh tears welled in her eyes. "And I don't
care." She reached out to touch his arm, but he jerked it away.
"Well, I care, for your sake."
Random thoughts taunted her, of how to tell him of her cold husband, of
her empty marriage. But she couldn't bare her soul to him, couldn't reveal
the shameful secret she'd kept hidden. She looked at him, this man she
loved with all her heart, and saw her own despair reflected on his face. Despite
her anguish, the pressure of his thigh against hers sent her reeling with passion,
making her so warm she thought she must surely be on fire.
She took in every feature as if seeing him for the first time, saw every
line of his face. She saw the play of firelight on his dark hair, the firm
set of his mouth, his strong, expressive fingers that could be so gentle. Seeing
all these things, she knew her love for him would imprison her until the end
of time.
Excerpt from High Wind Rising, by Shirley Martin
With a shy
glance in his direction, she sat on a boulder next to him, their thighs touching. Despite
the water's chill, a rush of heat swept through her, a sensation so pleasurable
she couldn't wait much longer to be in his arms. They exchanged intimate
looks, as if they knew they were going to make love.
Silent moments passed, then Daniel stood and held his
hand out. "Had enough?" he asked after she'd scooped up handfuls
of icy-cold water that ran down her chin and dripped onto her shirt.
"Yes." She placed her hand in his, every
inch of her body throbbing with desire. As he led her from the river, she
clutched her skirt and took cautious steps, entranced with the warmth of his
skin, his touch that made her yearn to be in his embrace. Behind him, she
observed his wet pants that encased his muscular legs, his deerskin shirt stretched
across his wide shoulders.
They reached dry grass again. Their gazes locked
in a moment of hushed wonder, as though no one else existed in the world but
the two of them. Rebecca studied his face--the laughter lines around his mouth,
the golden flecks in his brown eyes, his copper hair rippling in the stiff wind. He
stood under a hickory tree, its massive branches concealing the sunlight, accentuating
his tawny skin.
"Rebecca." He eased her closer, his look
deep with yearning. She knew he was going to kiss her, and oh! she wanted
his kisses, wanted them more than anything on this earth.
Daniel tilted his head to touch his mouth to hers,
gently at first, a slight probing of the lips. He traced feathery kisses
along her cheek to her ear lobe, his breath warm on her skin as his mouth edged
downward to the hollow of her throat.
"Oh, my dear one," he moaned, his arms encircling
her in a tight embrace that left her wanting more.
His heart beat against hers, strong and steady. Alive
with this sensation so new, so wonderful, she could think of nothing but Daniel. She
gloried in the pressure of his body and ran her fingers along every ridge, every
muscle of his back. With deep, fiery kisses, they held each other as
close as possible, heart to heart, thigh pressed to thigh, their bodies molded
as one.
Aware of his need, she ached to give him pleasure, to
touch every part of him and have him inside her, to hear his love sighs in her
ear. Heat inflamed her as his kiss deepened, his mouth moving against
hers, as if not to be denied.
"Daniel!" She returned his kisses with
a passion she'd never imagined she possessed, no, not in her wildest dreams.
Could this really be she, Rebecca Scott, who clung to
this man like a wanton, who opened her mouth to receive his most intimate kiss
ingled with his as wave after wave of longing swept through her and left her
so weak she thought her legs would fail her? And oh! his warm hand on her
breast, caressing her, until she feared she'd go out of her mind with joy. Surely
this was all a dream, a figment of her most desperate desires. Surely she'd
open her eyes to find this had all disappeared as the morning mist vanishes before
the bright sunshine.
Ah, but this was no dream. How she wanted him to
make love to her on the grass, to reach a fulfillment she knew he wanted as much
as she. And after their lovemaking, then what? Would he feel bound
to her, that he must make her his wife? Or would he consider her an easy
woman? That's how the white people would think, but the Indians looked
at courtship differently.
And what did he consider her, white or Indian? Either
way, she mustn't chance it.
With more willpower than she knew she possessed,
she broke away, her breaths uneven. "We must . . . must be on our
way." Raising her hand to his cheek, she touched the light stubble
that grazed his skin. "Daniel," she whispered, "I'm so sorry."
"Aye," he said in a ragged whisper, a harsh
set to his mouth. He took her hand and kissed the back, then turned it
over to place a light kiss on the palm, enclosing her slender fingers in his
strong callused ones as countless moments slipped past. "You have
the right of it." He exhaled a deep sigh and bent over to hand her
moccasins to her. "We should leave."
Copyright © Shirley Martin
Excerpt from One More Tomorrow by S.A. Martin
"Please let me touch you. It's been so long, so
very long." Galan drew her closer, running his hand up and down her
arm, reveling in her warmth and softness. "You have come to mean
so much to me.
"Sweeting!" He pressed his lips to hers,
kissing her as he'd wanted to all this time away from her, like years. He
ran his hand through her hair, letting the strands fall between his fingers like
warm satin. From the kitchen, the dramatic strains of Ravel's Bolero
provided a passionate backdrop for their lovemaking.
Desire raged inside him, hot, compelling, more potent
than anything he'd ever known, a longing to make this woman his, a dream that
would forever remain unfulfilled. A fresh barrage of sensations besieged
him, of sight and sound and taste, but especially of feeling. His kiss
deepened as his fingers grazed her face, tracing a path from her cheek to the
curve of her jaw and on to her neck.
She was so good, he thought as his lips tasted her sweetness. She
was innocence and light, everything he'd ever wanted in a woman. Everything
he could never have.
Inexorably drawn to her carotid artery, he heard the
blood gushing through her body, like the raging waters of a river. Fingering
her pale, delicate throat, he smelled her blood, more aromatic than the finest
perfume. And her skin--softer than the finest cashmere. Hunger roared
inside him, a burning, aching need, threatening to consume him. By St.
Aidan, he must not do the very thing that would frighten her away. How
easy it would be to drink of her sweet nectar, to join her body to his for all
time, and make her one of the undead.
He struggled to dismiss his vampire yearnings, but oh!
he wanted her beyond reason. His teeth grazed her neck, his tongue licking
her exquisite skin, his body fighting this wild craving. With an inward
sigh, he drew away from her neck and returned to her lips.
Easing her bathrobe open, he found her breast, tempting
and warm. He caressed her, wanting her more than anything he'd craved for
all these centuries, more than sustenance or even mortality. He needed
to lie with her, bare skin to bare skin, warm womanhood against hard masculinity. Aching
to bury himself in her soft, warm folds, he fought his burning attraction,
his need to make love to her.
Instinctively, he knew she was a virgin, and he must
not violate her chastity. Above all, he must not bind her to him when
nothing but hopelessness stretched ahead.
* * *
Stevie forgot her pain, forgot everything but the passion
that overwhelmed every part of her body. His lips, hard and demanding against
hers, aroused heat and desire like nothing she'd ever known, like nothing she'd
ever imagined. She pressed closer to him, wanting him, needing him, as she needed
food and drink, air to breathe. Their tongues touched, probing, and he
teased her mouth open, sending a fresh burst of pleasure from her head to her
toes.
Galan, she silently cried. Her hands roamed his
body, from hard-muscled arms to his broad back, then to the base of his
neck, where she ran her fingers through the thick mass of dark curls.
She reveled in his faint scent of sandalwood, clean and
masculine. She wanted him so much, wanted to--
"My dearest!" Breathing deeply, Galan
eased away, a look of misery on his face. "I fear I must leave you,
although I wish I could stay," he said in a strangled voice, feathering
kisses on her cheek. "No doubt you must arise early tomorrow."
His words cut through her like a knife. She struggled
to compose her features. Why had he stopped kissing her, as he had after
they returned from the movies, so long ago? She shoved a loose lock of
hair from her forehead. Galan, please don't leave me now. If only he
would stay with her tonight. What if they made love, as she'd dreamed of doing
with him for a long time? It would be the first time for her, but with Galan,
it would be worth it. Somehow, she knew lovemaking would be wonderful with
him.
A pleasantly persistent ache settled in her feminine
core. Determined to calm her erratic heart, she tried to act casual, as
if he hadn't driven her out of her mind with his touch, his kisses.
"Right." She adjusted her bathrobe,
keen disappointment welling inside her. "Have to get up at six." She
tucked strands of hair behind her ears and waited long, silent moments for
her heartbeat to return to normal, for her passion to subside.
"I want to see you again," he said, "and
very soon."
His voice, hypnotic and sensuous as always, wrapped around
her like a warm blanket. She could only nod, as if he'd just explained
the mysteries of the universe.
"Best I leave now," he repeated, rising to
his full height. "Don't bother to get up, dear Stevie. I can
see myself out. I shall call you later."
"Hey, I'm not helpless." She walked him
to the front door, her body still on fire for him.
At the door, he drew her into his arms and gave her one
last lingering kiss, then stepped back, his look heavy with passion. "Au
revoir." He turned and headed for the street.
Still weak with this persistent ache, she watched from
the living room window as he strode toward his car and drove off. She'd
go to bed now, since tomorrow--
There, behind the grapefruit tree! That old man
again, the one with long, bushy hair. She leaned closer to the window,
pressing her head against the glass. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She'd
call the police, and this time--
He disappeared! One minute she saw him, and the
next minute he was gone. Her hand trembled as she drew the deadbolt in place. What
was he doing here, and where had he gone? Was he after her, and if so,
why?
Another question froze her insides. Was there a
connection between him and Galan?
Copyright © Shirley Martin
Excerpt from Dream Weaver by S.A. Martin
Gwen removed her hat, then lay back on the warm grass. "It's
too nice a day to discuss my, uh, linguistic idiosyncrasies," she murmured
as she closed her eyes. "I could sleep here all afternoon."
Christian stretched out on his side next to her. "Why
waste time sleeping? I can think of better things to do," he said, easing
closer to her. Bracing his elbow on the ground, he raised himself and looked
down at her. He swept a stray lock of hair from her cheek, then bent low
to kiss her there.
"Christian..." She slid her arms across
his back, drawing him nearer, loving the warmth of his hard body, feeling the
muscles in his back and arms. She sighed. If only she could stay with Christian
forever, forget her worries about returning to her own time. But above
all else, saving Christian's life and her own.
He left a trail of kisses from her ear to her breast. He
lay partway across her, kissing her deeply, moving his lips against hers with
a tantalizing pressure that left her wanting more than just his kisses.
Deep sighs and moans echoed in her ears, and she realized
they were her sighs and moans.
"Gwen!" His body pressing on hers, he
caressed her, his hand warm on her breast, his sighs mingling with hers. His
quickened breathing excited her like the most passionate kiss. Alarm
bells rang in her head.
They had to stop, or soon they'd reach the point of no
return. But she didn't want Christian's lovemaking to end. She wanted
his kisses and caresses to go on and on. She didn't care where it led them. Or
tried not to care.
"Christian, I--"
"Shh, don't talk." His hand roamed across
her body, his fingers insistent. Despite the cool air, warmth radiated from his
body, his passion evident in his touch, his kisses.
Was this what she wanted, to let him have his way with
her when he wouldn't even commit himself? He hadn't said a word about love,
not once. And she wanted more than just a fling. She wanted a commitment. She
loved him, and never more than at this moment. Yet how could she get him
to marry her if he didn't love her?
"Christian," she said, easing away from him. "We
have to stop."
"Yes, I know," he said, his voice muffled against
the hollow of her throat. He raised himself to study her face. "If
you hadn't stopped me... Surely you know how much I want you, but
not like this, never like this."
Like what, then? Gwen wanted to ask but didn't dare risk
the question.
Copyright © Shirley Martin
Excerpt from The Sacrifice by S.A. Martin, a part of the anthology In the Witching Hour
When they came to a wide oaken door with gold handles,
a liveried servant opened it for them. Thanking him, they stepped out
to a glorious, sunny day, neither hot nor cold, with only a light breeze. Past
tall, stately trees similar to oaks in her country, they continued down a graveled
path until they came to the most luscious garden she'd ever beheld; some of
the flowers she recognized, some not. But more than flowers or trees
or palace, she reveled in Weylyn's nearness, everything about him, from his
long hair rippling in the breeze, to his face with its pleasant, even features,
and on down the length of his tall physique. He squeezed her fingers,
and heat kindled between them, an exciting awareness of each other, coupled
with the pleasure/pain of wanting more than holding hands, ah, so much more. Yet
at the same time, Briana feared this time they shared would not–could
not–last forever. She didn't want to think beyond this moment,
didn't want to consider their return to Maith Fearann.
Weylyn eased her closer, looking back toward the
palace. "Let's go on, darling, to a place where no one can see us."
And then what? Sweet anticipation warmed
her body, a need she could never deny, a wild hunger to be held in Weylyn's arms. Innocent
in the ways of love, she knew that whatever occurred between a man and a woman
would be wonderful with Weylyn. She wanted this beautiful thing to happen,
wanted it more than anything in her life. Yesterday, oh, yesterday! What
would have transpired had they not had the interruption in the library?
Past more bushes and trees, they came to a lake,
its waters glittering in the sunlight. They walked around the lake, coming
to a gazebo, its walls of wood, a marble bench waiting inside. As soon
as they stepped inside, Weylyn drew her into his arms, kissing her as if they'd
been separated for years. She returned kiss for kiss, holding him as close as
possible, her fingers tracing every muscle, every bone in his back. Ah,
she craved his body, loved the feel of him, he very essence of him, everything
that made him the man she loved. She pressed ever closer, wanting to tease,
torment, drive them both to madness. If he didn't make love to her now,
this very minute, she would go out of her mind.
"I want you so," he whispered in her
ear between kisses. "Gods! Briana, I want you like nothing I've
ever desired in my life."
"Me, too. Ah, Weylyn, you have no idea."
"Ah, but I–"
Whistling sounded near them, and they drew apart,
a look of consternation on Weylyn's face, a deep disappointment raging inside
her. It seemed as if the sun had stopped shining, as if she were alone
in the world. They glanced beyond the gazebo and saw a fairy gardener trimming
the bushes, his clipppers making a clicking sound as he cut away extra foliage. He
caught their eye and winked, then went back to his job.
Weylyn sighed. "Is there a conspiracy
against us?" he asked in his husky voice.
She leaned against his hard chest. "It
seems that way."
Copyright © Shirley Martin
Excerpt from Night Secrets by S.A. Martin
"I'll miss you." Kerry bit her lower lip. "What
I mean is, I've enjoyed these talks with you."
"So have I. And I'll miss you, Kerry." I
can never tell you how much. And suddenly, he wasn't sitting across from her
any longer, but had moved next to her, as though his body had a will of its own.
"Kerry?" Roric looked into her eyes,
hoping to see that her need matched his, that she wanted him as much as he desired
her.
"Ah, Roric!"
He reached for her, needing to hold her close as he'd
yearned to for so long. Willingly, she went to him, her body next to his. First
tossing their robes aside, he drew her into his arms, and all but cried with
pleasure. His every heartbeat, every breath revealed how much he desired her,
a deep and aching thirst that pulsed through his body. He kissed her passionately,
a kiss that conveyed all his pent-up longing. Feathering kisses on her
forehead, cheeks, and the hollow of her throat, he whispered her name again and
again. She responded, returning kiss for kiss, drawing him ever closer, her breasts
pressed to his body. He never wanted the kiss to end, never wanted the
night to end. Pressing ever closer, he eased her down on the cave floor,
his body stretched out beside her.
Ah, to make her his own! To become one with her
and know all the joys her supple body promised. He kissed her again and
again, never able to get enough. Driven by a desperate yearning he could
no longer deny, he touched her body, from her breasts to her stomach and the
curve of her hips. His fingers caressed that most secret part of her, touching,
probing, watching her face by the firelight.
"Ah, Kerry!" He wanted her as he
had never craved anything in his life, aching to join his body with hers, to
satisfy this longing that had taunted him for so long. He had to have her,
had to take her now! He could not bear to wait any longer.
She moaned, and reality him like a blast of icy wind. There
could never be anything between them. She was the future queen, and he
was but her loyal servant. With every bit of willpower he possessed, he
drew back, a deep ache inside him, his body on fire. His breath came in
gasps, and he didn't know how he could bear this unfulfilled passion, this throbbing
inside him.
Keriam blinked her eyes open. "Roric?" She
reached for him, but he eased her hands away. "Don't do this to me!"
Fierce disappointment sent his spirits plummeting, as
if all the joys of life, everything wonderful this life had to offer, had been
denied him. A dull ache settled inside him, a need he feared would always remain
unfulfilled. "I fear I forgot myself. Forgive me, madam."
"Stop calling me that! Why did you stop when
we . . . when we–"
"When we both wanted to make love?" He
raised himself on his elbow, looking down into her eyes, and saw his own need
reflected in hers. "And then what, Kerry? You'll become queen
some day, and I . . . I intend to return to Mumhain, see my family again, then
hire myself out as a mercenary," he said, his last declaration a sudden
decision, although he'd considered such employment. He breathed deeply,
trying to forget all they'd relinquished, all the joy that would never be theirs
to share.
He sat up, then helped raise her, wrapping the bear robe
about her shoulders, drawing it close around her body. It took all
his willpower to drop his hands when he wanted only to let his fingers linger
on her shoulders and feel her warm breasts, to discover all the beautiful secrets
of her body.
"I fear I forgot myself, too." She brushed
strands of hair from her face and tucked them behind her ears. A look of
resolve captured her face, prompting him to wonder if she felt the same despair
as he. "You must miss your family," she said, her face gentling.
"Very much." A painful silence followed,
then he rose, drawing his robe about him. "It's getting late. I
must arise early tomorrow to set out for Uisnech. Goodnight, Kerry," he
said with a long look her way. Sacred shrine, how could he leave
her!
She smiled up at him, a picture he would carry with him
on his long trip, one he would remember for the rest of his life.
"Goodnight, Roric."
He stooped low at the cave entrance, removing the posts
that held the bearskin cover in place and returned them to their former position. After
the bearskin wall had closed behind him, Keriam lay back and closed her eyes,
reliving every moment of their embrace. She touched her mouth, recalling
the feel of his lips on hers and how those lips aroused her like nothing she'd
ever known. She still throbbed in her most feminine part from wanting him,
and moisture dampened her dress. To think what they had almost shared,
to think they'd come so close to making love! She touched herself
there, imagining him inside her, and could hear his voice in her ear, could feel
his warm breath on her neck. Ah, Roric, I want you so much. Gladly
would she give up the kingdom if she could only live as she wanted to, married
to the man she loved. But she'd known all along it was a foolish dream.
When had a member of the royal family ever put personal happiness ahead of royal
duties?
Still, it had been a nice dream, for the very short time
it lasted.
Copyright © Shirley Martin