Tasia hoped no one had overheard him. “My lord,” she whispered reprovingly, and he grinned.
“You have no idea what your presence in my bed is worth. I advise you to take advantage of it.”
She was torn between the urge to end the improper conversation at once and the desire to prolong it. The feel of his strong arm around her waist and his breath on her skin was irresistible. She stared into his smiling eyes, uncertain of how to react to his teasing. “Why did you want me as a wife and not a mistress?” she asked.
The quality of his smile changed, and his voice was very soft. “Would you like me to take you home and show you?”
Tasia stayed silent, imprisoned by his direct stare. She wasn't aware that she had gripped his arm until her hand slipped a little, feeling the edge of leather binding beneath his shirtsleeve. Suddenly all she could think about was being in bed with him, his mouth on her skin, the sensations he could coax from her body with such ease.
Seeing the answer in her eyes, Luke turned to the store attendant, who was hovering a few feet away. “I believe our shopping is concluded for now,” he said blandly. “Lady Stokehurst has a touch of fatigue.”
Even without having had experience of other men, Tasia knew that her husband was a superb lover. The way he used his touch, his body, his kisses, could be shaded with infinite meaning. There were nights when the hours of lovemaking blended into a slow-moving dream, sensations spilling over her in an endless flow. He cuddled, kissed, soothed her until she purred with the pleasure of being possessed by him. But often Luke liked to play in bed, aggressive rough-and-tumble games that left her breathless with laughter. Tasia was amazed at the way he could provoke her. Even as a child, she had been quiet and well-behaved. Luke stripped away her inhibitions, encouraging—no, demanding—that she respond to him in a way that defied all her old ideas of propriety.
Tasia wished it were possible to need Luke only a little. She tried to keep her feelings contained, but they flourished in unruly profusion. The attention he paid her, the conversations, smiles, the ready comfort, were like an addictive drug. He asked for very little in return. Guiltily she thought that she should say that she loved him, but somehow the words wouldn't come. It seemed as if the key to her destruction lay in that unspoken sentence. She could give only so much of herself, and then she drew back in fear, for reasons she couldn't explain even to herself.
“I've never been spoiled like this before,” she told him one afternoon as they relaxed in the high-walled garden of the villa. “I'm sure it's wrong of me to let you.”
The full heat of summer was almost upon them. They reclined in the shade of towering box and bay hedges, and a graceful spreading oak. Honeysuckle and thornless climbing roses spread their perfume through the air. Tasia toyed with a single rose, drawing the blossom along the edge of Luke's jaw.
He lay with his head pillowed in her lap. Idly he propped up one knee and swung it. “I don't see that spoiling has done you any great harm.” He glanced up at her face, reaching to stroke the velvety curve of her cheek. “You're more beautiful than ever.”
Tasia smiled and bent over his head, touching her nose to his. “Because of you.”
“Is it?” His hand slid around the back of her neck, bringing her closer. They exchanged a long, savoring kiss before she replied.
“Russians have a word for the arrival of spring:
ottepel
. It is used to describe awakening. That's how I feel.”
“Really.” His eyes were bright with interest. “Show me what's been awakened.”
“No,” she squeaked, dropping the rose as he fondled her lustfully.
“I want to know exactly which part,” he insisted, pulling her down to the grass until she was stretched beneath him. Casually he drew his hand down her body, ignoring her giggling protests that someone might see.
During the three weeks they had spent in London, Luke had gathered a thousand images of Tasia in his mind, but none so enchanting as this moment, as she struggled to climb on top of him in a wrestling match. Luke much preferred his wife's vigorous romping to her previous wan gracefulness. Her body had lost its spare, thin appearance, and there was a new roundness to her neck and face and limbs. Her breasts were still small, but softer and fuller. Her skirts rode up to her knees as she straddled his hips, hands braced on his shoulders for balance. She perched on him triumphantly. Luke flexed his shoulders slightly, making her aware of the sinewy power beneath her hands, reminding her that she was on top only because he allowed it.
“I want to ask you something,” she said.
“Ask away.”
“Promise me that before you refuse, you'll let me say all I want. And that you'll try to listen with an open mind.”
“Ask,” he growled, feigning impatience.
Tasia took a deep breath. “I want to write to my mother,” she said bluntly. “I need to assure her that I'm safe and happy, for my peace of mind as well as hers. I know that she worries about me. It can't be good for her health. And I think about her every day. I won't write anything that will betray my situation—no names or places mentioned. But it is absolutely necessary that I do this. You must understand how much it means to me.”
Luke was silent for a moment. “I understand,” he said tonelessly.
Her eyes sparkled with gladness. “Then you'll permit me to write to her?”
“No.”
Before he could explain why, Tasia swung off him and gave him a sullen, determined stare. “I wasn't requesting your permission, I was trying to be courteous. It's not your decision to make. It's
my
mother, and
my
safety that's at stake.”
“And you're
my
wife.”
“I have always decided on the risks that are necessary to take. Now you're trying to deny me something I need desperately to do!”
“You know what I told you about contacting your family. You're aware of the reasons why.”
“We can trust my mother not to mention this to anyone.”
“Can we?” he asked evenly. “Then why didn't you trust her enough to tell her that your death was faked? Why did Kirill insist on keeping it secret from her?”
Tasia was quiet, glaring at him. She couldn't argue with his point. But the curb on her independence was infuriating. She needed to establish some fragile link to the world she had left. At times she almost felt as if she didn't exist, cut off as she was from everything she had been and known and done. It was as if her old self had truly died. No one could truly understand her confusion, the feelings of happiness and loss that coexisted inside her. Her husband was sympathetic but unyielding. His decision was the final one.
“You can't stop me from doing as I please,” she said rebelliously. “Unless you plan to guard me every minute of the day.”
A warning glint entered his eyes. “I won't play the role of prison guard,” he agreed softly. “Neither will I be cast as a tyrant. I'm your husband, with the right—and the responsibility—to protect you.”
Tasia knew that her burst of temper was unfair, but she couldn't stop herself from defying him further. “I could have this marriage annulled!” Suddenly she found her wrist seized in a firm grip, and she was hauled close against a masculine body that was tense with anger.
“You took a vow before God to be my wife,” he said through his teeth. “That means more to you than any laws ever written. You couldn't break a spiritual covenant any more than you could kill a man in cold blood.”
“If you believe that, then you know nothing about me,” Tasia replied, her eyes blazing. She yanked at her wrist, pulling hard until he released her. Hurriedly she left him in the garden and retreated to the sanctuary of the villa.
T
hey didn't exchange a word at supper. They ate alone in a dining room filled with yellow Italian marble, delicately carved Venetian furniture, and a sixteenth-century ceiling painted with mythological figures. Although the food was delicious as usual, Tasia could barely swallow a mouthful. The silence stretched her nerves thin.
Usually this was her favorite time of day. Luke would entertain her with stories of places he had been and people he had met. He coaxed her to tell him about her life in Russia. Sometimes they debated various issues in a rapid-fire fashion, and sometimes they flirted and engaged in bits of nonsense. One evening Tasia had sat in his lap for most of the meal, and taught him the Russian words for the morsels she fed him.
“
Yah'blahkah
,” she had said, carefully guiding a bit of fruit to his mouth. “That is apple.
Greebi
' is the word for mushrooms. And this is
ri'bbah
. Fish.” She had laughed at his pronunciation, and shook her head. “You English always make the ‘R’ so far back in your throat—as if you are growling. Say it against your teeth…
ri'bbah
.”
“
Ri'bbah
,” he said obediently, eliciting another laugh from her.
“Here, perhaps some wine will loosen your tongue.” She lifted a glass of white wine to his lips. “This is
vino' byeh'lahyeh
. Make the words against your teeth. To speak Russian well, you have to spit a little. And keep your mouth round…” She had tried to shape his lips with her fingers as he spoke, and then they both dissolved in laughter, until she nearly fell out of his lap.
“Tell me the word for
kiss
,” he said, gathering her against his chest.
“
Pahtsyeloo'eey
.” She had wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his.
Tasia wished for one of those lighthearted evenings now. Several hours had passed since the argument she had instigated earlier. She knew she hadn't been fair. She wasn't even certain what had caused her flare of temper. An apology hovered on her lips, but pride kept her from saying anything. Meanwhile, her loving husband had disappeared, and in his place was an indifferent stranger, coldly unconcerned with the lack of conversation.
Tasia's misery grew with every minute. She drank three glasses of red wine in an effort to dull her discomfort. Finally she excused herself to totter alone up to their bedroom. After dismissing the maid, she pulled off her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor, then crawled naked into bed. The wine had made her groggy. She slept heavily, barely stirring in the middle of the night when she felt Luke's weight lower to the mattress.
Dreams consumed her in a thick red-black fog.
She was in a church, surrounded by burning candles, her nostrils filled with incense smoke. She couldn't breathe. Sinking to the ground, clutching at her throat, she raised her eyes to the rows of gilded icons. Please, please help me…Their pitying faces blurred, and she felt herself lifted, placed inside a narrow box. Clutching at the sides of the box, she tried to pull herself out
.
Nikolas Angelovsky's golden face was above her. He watched her with flat yellow wolf-eyes, while his teeth bared in an evil grin. “You'll never get out,” he sneered, and slammed the lid on the coffin. A pounding noise began as he drove in nails to seal her inside. Tasia sobbed and thrashed, and somehow found the voice to scream
.
“
Luke! Luke
—”
He shook her awake, bending over her writhing body. “I'm here,” he said repeatedly, while she clutched at him and breathed in choking gasps. “I'm here, Tasia.”
“Help me—”
“You're all right. You're safe.”
The nightmare was slow to leave her. Shaking wildly, Tasia buried her sweat-blotched face in his neck. She had never felt so foolish and cowardly. “Nikolas,” she managed to say. “He sh-shut me in a coffin. I-I couldn't get out.”
Luke sat up and cradled her against his broad chest, rocking her as if she were a child. She couldn't see him in the darkness, but his arms were hard around her, and his low voice was close to her ear. “It was just a dream,” he murmured. “Nikolas is far away, and you're safe in my arms.”
“He's going to find me. He'll take me back there.”
Luke continued to rock her slowly. “My sweet little girl,” he whispered. “No one's going to take you away from me.”
Tasia tried to gulp back her tears. “I'm s-so sorry about today. I don't know why I said those things—”
“Hush. It's all over now.”
Suddenly she erupted into giggling sobs. “I'll go crazy if I have another nightmare like that. I can't stop it from coming back. I'm afraid to sleep.”
Holding her close, Luke whispered against her hair, endearments, meaningless phrases to comfort her. His muscled shoulder was tense beneath her wet cheek. Tasia gave a shuddering sigh and breathed in the scent of his skin. His hand was resting on her side, his thumb touching the outer curve of her breast. “Don't let go,” she whimpered, turning to him with her body, her entire being, wanting him with a depth of hunger that frightened her.
“Never.” He kissed her, his tongue skillfully exploring her mouth. At the same time, his hand moved over the soft rise of her breast. He allowed her no words, no time to think as he pulled her from the nightmare and replaced it with a dream of exquisite fire. His fingers skimmed the surface of her breast and pulled lightly at her nipple, worrying the tender flesh until it gathered to a point. Covering the bit of textured silk with his mouth, he used wet flicks of his tongue to stimulate her. Tasia's head fell back as liquid rushes of feeling washed over her, and she was bathed in the healing warmth of desire.
He pushed her down on the bed, flat on her back. Tasia lay in trembling submission, waiting for his touch, his warmth to cover her. There was nothing but stillness. Her eyes opened as she strained to find him in the darkness. “Please…” Blindly she reached for him, her groping hands finding only empty air.
She felt his mouth on her stomach, kissing and licking in a slow path from one hipbone to the other. Her muscles tightened, and she groaned his name. He was unmoved by her urgency. Brushing away her importuning hands, he feasted on her body as a gourmet savoring exotic cuisine. A swirling lick over her breast, a teasing bite at her waist, a string of kisses along her inner thigh. Driven to wanton shamelessness, she writhed and opened her legs wide. He laughed softly and slid his fingers into the tender opening of her body. She gasped as she felt his touch slip easily inside her, stroking deeply, probing with knowing gentleness.
His breath burned the silken hollow of her groin. He rubbed his mouth and nose into the mat of delicate hair, reaching with his tongue, dragging it deep through the fragrant softness. Using his mouth and his fingers, he teased her to the brink of fulfillment, drawing away just before she could climax.
Tasia gave a high-pitched moan, arching in frantic welcome as he swung over her and positioned himself between her thighs. He entered her in a smooth, hard glide. She convulsed at once with a scream of pleasure. He continued to move at a measured pace, sweat beading on his skin as he fought for control. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lost to everything but the feel of him pushing hard within the succulent depths of her body. The tide of sensation approached again, and she tensed beneath him while stinging tears slipped from her eyes. “I love you,” she sobbed against his taut throat.
He deepened his thrusts, nudging against her womb, and she shuddered in ecstasy. Her body tightened around him, making it impossible for him to contain his passion. He joined her in a soul-wrenching climax, groaning at the wholesale shattering of his nerves. They stayed locked together, breathing hard, twining around each other in fierce reluctance to let the intimacy end.
“I love you,” she said again, when she had the strength to speak. She buried her head against his chest. “I was afraid to say it before.”
He smoothed her long hair in a gentle, repeated motion. “Why did you now?”
“I can't live that way any longer, being afraid of what's in my heart. And I don't want there to be secrets between us.”
Luke pressed his lips to her forehead, and she could feel that he was smiling. “No secrets,” he whispered. “No lies, no fear…no past.”
“If it all ends tomorrow, at least we've had this,” she said, drugged with sleepy pleasure. “It's more than most people ever have. It should be enough.”
“A lifetime wouldn't be enough.” Luke kept her wrapped close, her hair spilling over him in dark rivers of silk, her sleek limbs tangled with his, her warm breath on his shoulder. He felt the mingling of fragility and resilience within her. Although he was not a religious man, a silent prayer resounded through him.
Thank you, God, thank you for leading her to me
…How he had come to merit her presence in his life was a question better left uncontemplated. He wouldn't tempt fate by wondering.
During the month they had been apart, Emma seemed to have grown taller. She came into the London villa, red curls flying, and launched herself at Tasia with a peal of laughter. “
Belle-mère
! I've missed you and Papa so much!”
“I've missed you too,” Tasia said, hugging her tightly. “How is Samson?”
“We had to leave him in the country.” Emma pulled back and made a face. “He cried dreadfully. It took two servants to keep him from running after the carriage. He kept howling like this—” She demonstrated a mournful dog wail, making Tasia laugh. “But I told him it wouldn't be long before we all returned.”
“Have you been keeping up with your lessons?”
“No. Grandmother never makes me study, except the times she tells me to ‘go along and read a big book.’ And Grandfather is always busy paying calls to his friends, or lurking in corners trying to pinch the housemaids.”
“Oh, dear.” Still smiling, Tasia walked with Emma to the front of the entrance hall, where the duchess had paused for a private word with Luke.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Kingston, was an imposing woman, tall and slender, with brilliant silver hair and dark, hawklike eyes. She was dressed in pearl-gray and plum silk, and a remarkable straw hat with a high “flower-pot” crown. There were two dead stuffed birds perched on the sloping brim of the hat.
“She killed them herself,” Emma said in a deadpan tone, and grinned at Tasia's wide-eyed glance.
Luke stood with his mother, listening attentively as she gave him a detailed account of Emma's behavior for the past month. “She would be more at home living in the woods with wild creatures than under a civilized roof,” the duchess proclaimed. “Fortunately I have a calming influence on Emma. She always benefits from the time she spends with me. You'll find she is much improved since you saw her last.”
“How gratifying,” Luke said, giving his approaching daughter a wink. “Where is Father?”
The duchess frowned. “Away on some romantic peccadillo. He snaps up silly young girls like an old cat hunting baby birds. You should be pleased by his absence. Otherwise he would be busy chasing your new bride round the villa.”
Luke grinned and kissed his mother's wrinkled cheek. “Nothing that tying him to a heavy chair wouldn't solve.”
“You should have suggested that years ago,” the duchess replied sourly, appearing to store the idea for future consideration. She raised her voice and turned toward Tasia and Emma, who waited tactfully nearby. “I came to see what kind of woman could manage to bring my son to the altar. I would not have thought it possible after so many years.”
Luke watched with pride as Tasia stepped forward to greet the duchess. “Your Grace,” she said softly, and dropped in a supple curtsy. The duchess looked at Luke, making no effort to hide her surprise. Whatever his mother had expected, it was not a young woman with such royal bearing.
Tasia looked particularly beautiful that day, her dark hair swept in a chignon fastened with diamond-studded hairpins, her white throat gleaming through a scarf of blue gauze. Her gown was a close-fitting blue sheath, molded to her slender waist and hips. The skirts were drawn back to a small pleated bustle and draped to the floor in a slight train. Aside from the hairpins, the only jewelry she wore was her gold wedding band and a cross on a gold chain around her neck.
Luke tried to see her through his mother's eyes. Tasia had a quiet self-possession that was uncommon to anyone outside a convent. And there was a sweet solemnity in her eyes, the look of a child at evening prayers. How she could keep that look of innocence in spite of his corruptive influence was a mystery to Luke. But his mother would definitely approve, in spite of the fact that she still believed Tasia to be a mere governess.
“Welcome to the family,” the duchess said to Tasia. “Although one must observe that you entered it under curious circumstances.”
“Your Grace?” Tasia said, pretending not to understand.
The duchess frowned impatiently. “There is gossip in every corner of England concerning your mysterious appearance, and your precipitous marriage to my son. So precipitous, in fact, that the duke and I were not even invited.”
Luke interrupted hastily. “We decided to keep the ceremony private, Mother.”
“So it seems,” came the frosty reply.
Tasia winced, remembering her brief conversation with Luke over the question of inviting his parents, ending with his flat statement that they would only bring interference and unwanted questions to the ceremony. Her slight movement caused the gold cross to swing on its long chain, attracting the older woman's interest.
“What an unusual piece,” the duchess remarked. “May I see it?” Receiving Tasia's nod of permission, she lifted the ornament in her gnarled fingers. The filigree cross had been designed in the Kievan Russian style, with many tiers of thin gold thread and tiny gold drops to give it texture. The center was inset with a cluster of blood-colored rubies and a small, perfect diamond. “I've never seen such workmanship,” the duchess said, carefully releasing the necklace.