It was all she needed. She let out a wordless cry as her body tightened around his, milking him, smooth, shuddering contractions as pleasure engulfed her, and as he felt his seed burst forth he pulled free, hating it, using his own hand to try to simulate the feel of her as he emptied himself into the warm water, cursing beneath his breath.
When his heartbeat had sullenly slowed, he rose, lifting her in his arms, sopping wet. He stepped out of the high tub, onto the wet floor, and carried her across to the bed. There were Turkish towels lying there, and he wrapped her in them like a cocoon, her body soft pink from the water and exertion. As he pulled them around her, drying her, she suddenly looked up at him, and he stilled for a moment, staring back.
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and for a moment he was confused. Had he forced her without realizing it? Hurt her? He was still half-erect, or maybe growing so again, and he wanted her with a fierce need that her tears strangled.
He'd pulled the toweling up around her neck, holding it there to keep her warm. "Do you want to leave, Charlotte?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
For a long moment she didn't move. And then she shook her head, reaching up for him. And he covered her body with his.
Charlotte lost track of time. The hours passed in a blur, aided by the artificial light. He lay on the bed beside her and fed her sweetmeats and bits of cheese and ham, delicious tarts and sparkling wine. He made love to her, in the darkness, in the muted light, on the bed, on the floor by the fire, and when she was too sore to take him inside, he had her use her hand on him, bringing him to an exquisite completion that had her own body trembling.
There was no more need for talk. She was past the point of pretending she didn't want this, and he'd lost interest in baiting her. All he seemed to want was her body, wrapped around his, sleeping against him, shattering in ecstasy, on top and beneath and beside him. She was awash in the touch of him, the taste and scent and texture of his skin. She wrapped her long legs around his narrow hips, she shoved her hands through his thick hair, she kissed him, over and over again, never tiring of it, having no idea how much time passed in that dreamy, dazed slate, when she awoke and found herself alone in the cavern-like room, the front door open to the bright sunlight.
For a long moment she didn't move, unwilling to face the daylight. She didn't want this to end, couldn't bear for it to be over.
Her monk's robe lay across the foot of the bed, and she pulled it on, fastening it at the shoulder, then searched for the rope that held it closed. Her sandals were long gone, so she slid barefoot onto the thick carpet. "Adrian?" she said in a small voice.
No answer. There was a scrap of paper on the table, but she didn't want to look at it. She wanted to go back to the bed where such powerful, impossible things had happened, pull the curtains and close her eyes. And wait until he came back for her.
But he wasn't coming back. She knew it immediately, and she wasn't the type to cry. She crossed the room and picked up the piece of paper, then dropped it on the table. Novelty can only entertain for so long, it said. Goodbye.
Her hair was loose, a mass of curls flowing over her shoulders. She reached back and took the length in one hand, working it into a loop to flatten it before she pulled the hood over her head. She tucked her hands inside the large sleeves, ignoring the faint tremor. The interval was over, it was time to return to her normal life. Time to move on, without looking back.
In the light of day the courtyard looked smaller than she had imagined. There was no one in sight— even his servant had disappeared. Odd, though. She had the strange sense someone was watching her as she walked back toward the Portal of Venus. The grass was cold and wet on her bare feet, and she realized by the position of the sun that it was still early. She moved on, slowly, deliberately, refusing to think.
She passed an occasional servant as she went, but they kept their heads down, refusing to look at her. The Revels must still be continuing, she realized. Everyone else was still in the midst of their debauchery.
It was just as well. She no longer had the strip of white cloth that signified she had no interest in participating, and if anyone decided she was fair game she'd have a hard time putting up a fight. She was lost, defeated. Everything ached. Not that he'd been too rough. They'd made love gently, fiercely, with tenderness and with anger. She was bruised from his hard grip, he was raked by her nails, but the only thing he'd been brutal with was her heart.
She skirted the now-silent chapel with its obscene imagery, headed down toward the river, a narrow stream that carried the small flat boats from Hensley Court and back. She could only hope one was waiting there. Even if there was no servant she could probably manage to pilot the boat herself. It moved by way of a long barge pole, and she probably had enough strength to use it. If she didn't, she'd walk, or swim, or fly if she had to. Anything to get away from this sorrowful place.
The path led down beside a steep embankment overlooking the water, and there were rocks lining the path. She glanced down—when they'd arrived it had been dark and she'd had no idea how dangerous it was. It was a good thing she was barefoot—it made her more sure-footed.
The trees were rustling overhead. New leaves were budding, and the wind had picked up, pulling at her hood. She tugged it closer, keeping her head down, unable to see on either side, her hearing muffled as well. It wasn't until the hands touched her that she realized she was not alone.
And she was falling, down the steep embankment, the rough stones tearing at her arms and legs, the branches slapping at her. The hood fell back, and for a brief moment she looked up. up, to see someone standing at the top of the bluff, unmoving. Someone who had pushed her.
She landed against the boulders. The breath was knocked from her lungs, and she lay perfectly still, unable to breathe, unable to move. Her eyes were open, staring up at the figure above her, and she realized to her horror that he was starting down the steep hill toward her. Not to help her. To finish her off.
She tried to scream, but her breath was still gone, and all she could do was gasp and choke, flailing around. She could feel something wet and warm sliding down her face, and she knew it was blood. She was going to die, she thought. Whoever had shoved her down the cliff was going to kill her.
"Madame, are you all right?" The rough Yorkshire accent came from somewhere beyond her, down at her level, and the man above swiftly turned and began climbing upward, away from her.
Her breath came back in a huge, sucking whoosh. "I. . . I. . . " For a moment she couldn’t find her voice.
Someone was coming toward her now, someone tall, and the rising sun was behind him, throwing him in shadows. For a moment she thought it was Adrian, and her heart leaped. But he came closer, and it was a strange
r, one of the servants, kneeling beside her. "Just lie still, miss," he said. "Help is coming. "
Help is coming, she thought dizzily. She tried to look up toward the bluff, but there was no one in sight. "You must have slipped, miss," the man was saying. "That hillside is right dangerous—you could have been killed. Can you speak, miss?"
She moved her mouth, trying to get the words out. She wanted someone to go after him, after the man
who'd pushed her. Who'd tried to kill her. But that was ridiculous—why would anyone want to hurt her? 'The man. . . " she managed to say.
"What man, miss?"
But by then she gave up, slipping into the darkness that swirled around her head.