Improper Arrangements (6 page)

Chapter Seven

“Wake up, Alice. We need to be on our way. Wake up, now.”

Elijah was standing next to my bed, already dressed for the day. His hair was damp, pushed back roughly from his face. He hadn’t shaved. I was still so tired, my muscles almost unbearably sore, but I dutifully sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

“Yes, of course. I won’t be a moment. Is there water for me to wash?”

“It’s in the ewer. I’ll wait in the hall.”

As soon as the door shut behind him I stripped off my nightgown and washed with the now-tepid water and my scented soap, arranged my hair in a simple plaited bun and dressed in the clothes I’d worn the day before. After brushing my teeth, I packed away my nightgown and toiletries and opened the door to Elijah.

He carried both rucksacks downstairs, a gentlemanly gesture, and directed me to join him at the communal table. Breakfast was porridge, stewed apples, cheese, more of that dark and nearly indigestible rye bread, and huge mugs of milky coffee.

“How far are we walking today?” I asked him once he’d obtained more provisions, settled our account and ushered me outside.

“About ten miles. Steep but not difficult. Pretty scenery.”

He was right about the scenery. The path wound through pastures and woodland, going fairly steadily uphill. We passed a group of farm outbuildings, more pastureland, then fields wonderfully fragrant with the scent of ripening bilberries.

We’d been walking for about three hours when the path cut through a farm. A
buvette
had been provided for the use of walkers, and while Elijah filled the waterskins I sat down on a nearby bench and unlaced my right boot. My heel had begun to ache and I suspected I had the beginnings of a blister.

It was worse than I’d thought, for the blister was on my Achilles tendon and had already burst, staining my stocking with blood. I rolled off the stocking and bared my foot, grimacing a little because of the pain.

“What is it, Alice?”

“A blister. It only just started hurting me, I swear.”

He knelt down and took my foot in his hands. “It’s not that bad. I’ll clean and dress it for you.” He unfastened one of his rucksack’s exterior pockets and extracted a small metal case. From it he took a roll of cotton lint, a jar of what looked like ointment, and a roll of linen bandages. Working quickly and methodically, he washed the wound with water from the
buvette
, spread on some salve from the jar and bound up my heel with a length of bandage.

“What’s in that salve? It smells lovely.”

“Beeswax, olive oil, herbs. No idea which ones. My neighbor makes it.”

It was past time we got on our way, so I bent forward to lace up my boot. Just then Elijah, still kneeling, looked up at me. My cheek brushed against his, he steadied me by grasping my shoulders, and without pausing to consider the consequences, I closed my eyes, blindly turned my head and brushed my lips against his.

We had only left Argentière the day before, and already I was in his arms, my hard-won principles discarded like so much dried-up paint. Surely he would push me away—surely he hadn’t forgotten how much he, too, deplored the idea of a liaison between us, no matter how fleeting.

Evidently he had forgotten, or perhaps he’d simply changed his mind, for he responded to my kiss as though he were starving, his mouth moving ravenously over mine. Hunger swelled in me, a mindless eagerness to taste, to learn, to
know
him in every possible way. He pulled me off the bench, one arm around my shoulders, the other urging my pelvis against his, and I gasped as the heat of his erection burned through the layers of clothing and convention that separated us.

I valued the life I had created for myself and had no wish to see it destroyed. I was a modern woman, a woman who took pride in making rational, sensible choices. But that woman had vanished, or perhaps had been vanquished, and in her place was an Alice I scarcely recognized, heedless of consequence, reckless to the point of ruin, deaf to everything save the flame of need his touch had kindled.

I suppose it was fortunate that Elijah had the sense to put an end to things before our kiss could progress any further. Rising to his feet in one lightning-quick, fluid movement, he set me back on the bench and backed away. He didn’t stop until he’d put nearly ten feet between us.

“For the love of God, Alice, what do you want from me?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “A liaison between us would be unwise, as we both agreed. And yet...”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“No. It’s only that I wish things could be different. I wish I could be free to indulge in such pleasures without the fear of what might occur.”

It was a potent fear, nearly enough to outweigh my desire for him. I badly wanted to lie with him again, but the risk was too great. At the very least it would mean weeks of uncertainty, and at the worst it would end with a child who had no father and no name, and the life I loved would never be the same.

“Is that the only impediment you see?” he asked, his voice softening. “The fear of my getting a child on you?”

“What could be worse?”

“Disease, for one.”

I hadn’t thought of that. To be honest, I wasn’t quite certain what sort of diseases one might contract as a result of intimate relations. But from the look on his face it was clear they were best avoided.

“Before you ask, no—you needn’t fear that from me,” he added. “You’re the first woman I’ve touched in more than two years.”

“You? The renowned E. P. Keating? I should think that women flock to you.”

“Perhaps if I lived in London. But Argentière is a small place. I’d be a fool to go about corrupting the local women.”

My next words flew out of my mouth before I could halt them. “So why me? I doubt you make a habit of corrupting the tourists.”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. I don’t know...there was something about you, that’s all. They way you moved, looked around. Looked at me. There I was, half-dressed, filthy, sweating like a pig. And you held out your hand for me to shake as if there were nothing amiss.”

“It would have been rude to do otherwise.”

“All the same. You’re a rare woman, Alice.” He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by the admission. “Enough chatter. Are you ready to continue? We’ve a lot of ground to cover before we reach Champex.”

“And then...?”

“We’ll talk again.”

So we journeyed on, through bright-painted meadows and delicately shadowed woodlands of green-gold beech and downy oak. We hadn’t cleared the air, not precisely, but as we walked, Elijah’s mood seemed to improve, although perhaps I was only imagining things. He would never be a talkative man, but he became sufficiently cheery to ask after my bandaged heel once or twice, and made no complaint when I stopped to sketch a cluster of pale violet
Petrocallis pyrenaica
nestled in a tumble of scree.

“I won’t be long,” I promised. “Only a pencil sketch, then some notes on color at the side.”

“Take your time. That’s why we’re here, after all.”

The blossoms were a distinctive pale violet color that faded to pink at their center, while their stamens were a bright gold without even a hint of green. Difficult but not impossible to capture.

Elijah watched me as I worked. “How do you know which colors to draw from?”

“You mean when I mix the shades?”

“Yes. I look at your tin of paints and all I see are primary colors. But you take a bit here, a bit there, and you have the exact shade you need. Every time, without fail. How do you know?”

“Practice. When I first started with watercolors I wasted a lot of paper, and paint, trying to create the colors I saw. Eventually I learned. Isn’t climbing the same?”

“Practice makes perfect, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“It helps. But you’ll never do it well if you don’t love it.”

“True,” I agreed. “Why do you love climbing?”

“That’s a long story. Why do you love painting?”

I had to think on that for a moment. “I suppose because it lets me capture something beautiful, hold on to the memory of it. And, well, I’m good at it. I doubt I would enjoy it as much if I weren’t.”

“I expect so. What makes you a good painter? Do you know?”

Now that was a question I’d never heard before. “I’m not sure...”

“I think you’re good because you’re fearless.”

“You have to be. With watercolors there’s no room for error. If I make a mistake I can’t erase what I’ve done.”

“It takes courage to work like that.”

“You exaggerate. It’s only a piece of paper and some paints. It’s not...well, it’s not a mountain. You’re the one who is fearless, climbing as you do.”

“Some might say foolhardy. Now—are you finished? Can we pack up and move on?”

“Of course. I won’t be a minute.”

We walked quite steadily uphill thereafter, so it was a relief when, late in the afternoon, the path began to descend toward our destination for the evening. I loved Champex at first sight, not only because of its quaint buildings and location on a breathtakingly blue lake, but also because Elijah promised he would be able to obtain a room for us at the Pension Trient.

Like our hotel from the night before, the pension was crowded with travelers, but the proprietor was delighted to see Elijah and gave over her last room to us.

“What do you want to do now, Alice? Get settled or have supper?”

All I wanted to do was take off my boots and collapse in a heap on the bed. “Might it be possible to take our meal upstairs?”

“Let me ask. In the meantime, here’s the key—we’re on the top floor again. Room 12.”

I dragged myself up the stairs, step by protesting step. It would get better; of course it would. I simply needed time to acclimate to the altitude and the exertion.

Our room was spacious, with a large double bed at one end and a table and two chairs at the other. Plenty of room for Elijah to stretch out, I thought as I removed my boots and fell onto the bed. Or perhaps I would be the one to sleep on the floor tonight. It was only fair, after what I had put him through earlier.

* * *

I woke to flickering candlelight and a darkened room. I sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and looked around me. Elijah was at the table, writing in his notebook.

“What time is it?”

“Half past eight. I went out to get a few things in the village, and I’ve fetched us some supper from downstairs. You must be right clammed.”

“I...what?”

“Sorry. My northern heritage making itself known. I meant to say hungry.”

I was, I thought as I smelled the delectable aromas coming from the tray of food on the table. I reached up, conscious that my hair would have become mussed as I slept, but found it was still held back sleekly. I really had been sleeping like the dead.

“It smells delicious,” I said as I sat opposite Elijah.

“Madame Bayard is known for her cooking. That’s one of the reasons I stay here. She’s given us vegetable soup, with
kroute u fre
to follow. Cheese toast in English. Only here they soak the bread in wine first.”

“I approve.”

“There’s pear cake, too, if you’ve room.”

We ate in silence, but comfortably so. As if we were old friends who had no need of conversation when there was good food and wine to share.

I was eyeing the wedge of cake that remained and considering whether I had room to indulge when Elijah cleared his throat and set down his knife and fork.

“I went into the village to fetch a few things.”

“You said. Provisions for tomorrow?”

“Not precisely.” He pushed his chair back and crossed the room to where he’d hung up his jacket. He pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from one of its pockets and returned to sit at the table.

“What is that?”

“A possible solution to our predicament.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You fear falling pregnant,” he said. “Understandably so. But there are ways of preventing pregnancy. Or hadn’t you realized?”

“Well...I’ve heard of such things. I know a man may, ah, withdraw from a woman...obviously I do, since you did so the other morning,” I said, tripping over my words. “But I’ve also heard it’s not always effective.”

“No method of birth control is infallible. If that were the case, I wouldn’t have so many brothers and sisters. But some methods are better than others.”

He opened the parcel and set a stoppered glass bottle on the table. Next to it he placed a drawstring bag made of waxed linen. Easing open the bag, he withdrew a small, round item. I leaned closer, the better to see in the flickering candlelight, and realized it was a sea sponge.

“You soak the sponge in olive oil, then insert it,” he explained. “It acts as a barrier against a man’s seed.”

“Where on earth did you obtain this?”

“A friend.”

“It really is effective?”

“In my experience, yes. But this is your decision, Alice. And I will not be angry or disappointed if you say no.”

“Why this? Why now?”

“There is something between us. Every time we touch, every time I look you in the eyes—it’s there. And I’m sick of fighting it.” He reached across the table and encircled my wrist with his hand. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to sleep tonight. And lying on the floor, thinking of all the different ways I’d like to make love to you, is a terrible recipe for a decent night’s sleep.”

“You were worried, before, that we’d develop an attachment to one another. You can’t have changed your mind about that.”

“I haven’t. But I know you better now. Can see how levelheaded you are. So it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I don’t know what to say. This really is most unexpected—”

“Yes or no, Alice. Just yes or no.”

Chapter Eight

Yes or no?

He wanted to share my bed, no more. He wasn’t asking for my heart. He didn’t covet my fortune. All he wanted was my body, and only as long as our journey together lasted.

“Yes,” I said, and I was amazed at how calm and steady my voice sounded.

Pushing back his chair, he stood and held out his hand. We crossed the room, taking half a dozen awkward, shuffling steps, until my skirts were brushing against the bed frame. He swung us round and sat, his legs spread wide so I might stand between them.

Before I could protest, his hands were in my hair, gently teasing out and removing pin after pin, letting them fall heedlessly to the floor. It felt terribly illicit, allowing a man to see my hair unbound in such a fashion. I’d never thought much of it—though abundant and very long, it was bone-straight and an uninspiring shade of light brown. Yet he seemed to like it well enough, combing through the strands with his fingers, smoothing each wayward lock until the mass of it fell heavily to the small of my back.

I didn’t even try to stifle the sound I made as he ran his hands through my hair, a low, thrumming moan that resembled a purr more than anything else. No wonder, for I’d seen cats respond to their owner’s caress just as I was responding to Eli now.

“Has no one ever brushed your hair before?”

“My maid. But it never felt like this.”

“Shall I tell you why?” he whispered against my ear. “Anticipation. You know what’s coming next. You know what we’re going to do. And you know it’s going to feel even better than this.”

His mouth closed over my earlobe, tasting it thoroughly, his teeth scraping in the most provocative fashion against my flesh, and I shivered at the sudden, enthralling rush of his exhaled breaths against my fevered skin.

His hands moved to trace the neckline of my gown, the tips of his callused fingers gentle on the pale shivering skin of my bosom. One by one, he unfastened the hooks and eyes that held shut the bodice. As they came free, he spread wide the gaping edges of fabric, baring my shoulders and arms. Closing my eyes, I felt his hands at my waist, loosening the ties of my petticoat and pantalettes, pushing them and my gown into a puddle of cambric, flannel and wool at my feet. And then he was opening my corset busk, his fingers brushing against the swell of my bosom as he released me from the garment’s embrace.

“Much better,” he muttered hoarsely. “Your turn now.”

“I beg your pardon?” Did he expect me to remove my chemise and drawers while he watched?

“Help me undress, Alice.”

“But I’ve no idea how—”

“Then you’ll learn. Wait while I take off my boots.”

I waited impatiently as he unlaced his boots and let them and his heavy wool socks fall to the floor. “Where shall I start?” I asked.

“With my coat and waistcoat.”

That was straightforward enough. I slid his coat off his shoulders, unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed it as well.

“Go on.”

It seemed logical to continue with his necktie. I pulled at the knot, loosening it with slow, jerky movements. It didn’t help that my hands were shaking—whether from nerves or excitement, I couldn’t tell.

I glanced up, hoping he wasn’t becoming impatient with me. He was smiling again, and for the first time I noticed the fine lines that fanned out from the corners of his remarkable eyes. I reached up, let my fingers trace the ridge of his brow, then brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. Here and there it was shot through with gray, as was his two-day-old beard.

“How old are you, Elijah?”

“Thirty-four. Rather younger than I look, I expect.”

“No, not at all. I like the silver in your hair. It matches your eyes.”

“How poetic. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six. And you’re a cad for asking. No lady cares to speak of her age. Particularly an aged spinster such as myself.”

“Rubbish. You’re beautiful—far more so now, I’d wager, than when you were a girl.”

He was wrong. I hadn’t been beautiful then, nor was I now. Before I could correct him, he undid the ribbon at the top of my chemise and I quite forgot what I’d been going to say. He drew its gathers wide and pulled it down over my shoulders, baring the swell of my bosom, then my nipples, then the entirety of my breasts.

I’d expected him to make some sort of comment at that point, some glowing ode to their whiteness or plumpness or their pleasing size, for my sister Eleanor had once told me that her husband was forever rhapsodizing about her bosom. But Elijah, being a man of comparatively few words, instead bent his head and took my left nipple into his mouth, sucking on it lavishly before turning to nuzzle at my other breast.

“When we met for tea, I felt like dragging you out of the conservatory and doing this to you. That damned dress you were wearing.”

“I could have sworn you were furious with me.”

“I was, at first. But I still wanted to fuck you.”

He fell back onto the bed, carrying me with him so I lay sprawled atop his body. He abandoned my bosom, his hands descending to the span of my waist, the flare of my hips, and then the fullness of my bottom.

Pulling me close, he molded my curves to the unyielding muscles of his thighs, his mouth pressing hot kisses against my temple. I clutched at him, heedless of the way my fingers bit into his arms, and pressed my bare breasts against his chest, which was still, maddeningly, hidden by his shirt.

“Take it off. Your shirt. I want to see more of you,” I demanded.

He said nothing, and I thought for a moment he was going to ignore me. But then he held me tight and rolled me on my back before rising to his knees. He shrugged free of his shirt and tossed it carelessly on the floor.

I ran my hands over the lean, corded planes of his arms and chest. “All this muscle...it’s from climbing?”

“I suppose. Though I’m not especially fit at the moment. Too much time spent at my desk.”

I touched a finger to the dark blue band encircling his right forearm. The markings weren’t solid, as I’d thought, but rather a closely inscribed design of thin, fine lines, no more than a quarter of an inch long, running in parallel formation around his arm, each band interspersed with precise dotted lines. The overall effect was quite stunning.

“Are these tattoos?”

“Yes.”

“When did you get them?”

“Years ago. I was in Itanagar, in northern India. Got drunk with my friends one night and decided I wanted tattoos like our Singpho porter. He had them up and down his arms. His legs, too.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Good God, yes. Stayed drunk for nearly a week, until my head hurt worse than my arms.”

“I like them. The tattoos. Can you feel them when I touch you there?”

“No. They feel the same as the rest of me.”

I let my fingertips linger on the bands, tracing the designs, thrilling at the hard muscle just beneath his exotically decorated skin. Then I moved my hands to the triangle of dark hair on his chest. It was finer than I would have supposed and surprisingly soft.

I touched his nipples, one then the other, drawing the hair away so I might see them better. Like my own, they had pulled up on themselves, tight with excitement, and so I rose up on my elbows and took his right nipple into my mouth, my teeth grazing it gently.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped.

A heartbeat later I was flat on my back and the full weight and length of his body was again pressed against mine, though the only point of contact I noticed was the heat of his erection at the juncture of my thighs, a searing brand as alarming as it was seductive.

It was but an echo of all I could feel, imprisoned as I was in my chemise and drawers. “Help me with the rest,” I murmured against his ear. He needed little encouragement, making quick work of my remaining garments, though he left my stockings in place.

No one, apart from my maids, had ever seen me so unclothed. It was terrifying, certainly, but also freeing. I had chosen to be with this man, had chosen to show myself to him. And I could see that he did, indeed, find me beautiful.

“Now?” I asked, spreading my legs wide, hoping to please him with my show of willingness.

“Soon.”

He pulled away from me and walked across the room, stopping at the table where we’d eaten our supper. He returned a moment later, pausing only to shed his trousers and drawers. This he accomplished with one hand, as his other held the sponge, now doused in oil, that he’d shown me earlier.

As he stretched out next to me, an exotic, almost peppery smell filled my nostrils.

“What is that scent?”

“The olive oil. Do you want to taste it?” Before I could answer, his fingers were at my lips, brushing them with the oil, daring me to lick them clean. It tasted just like it smelled—of sunshine and summer and warm, southern seas.

“Kiss me,” I asked, and he obliged, his mouth sweeping across mine in slow, drugging caresses, his teeth nibbling at my lower lip, his tongue tasting mine, licking away every trace of oil.

“Spread your legs wide,” he commanded. His fingers delved deep inside me, pushing the sponge high, and as they withdrew, I realized, rather to my surprise, that I couldn’t feel it at all.

What I could feel, most wonderfully, was the weight of his retreating fingers on my woman’s mound, followed by the sublime pressure of his thumb on the hidden pearl between my legs. I waited, not daring to breathe, for the moment when he would rub and rub and propel me into a whirlwind of pleasure, but he did nothing. Simply rested his thumb where it was, letting me grow used to the sensation, and then become ever more restless as I waited for him to proceed.

When he did move, it was so subtle I doubt I’d have noticed had he touched me anywhere else. Softly, so softly, he stroked me, lingering on the tender flesh, teasing it into swollen, eager readiness.

If it had been my hand between my legs, I would already have come. But Elijah was intent on torturing me, for each time I tumbled close to the edge he retreated, his touch relenting, slowing.

“It will be better this way,” he promised.

“It’s too much—I can’t bear it,” I pleaded.

“You can.”

I wanted to believe him, I did, but the bliss of his touch was pulling at me, drawing me down, and I hadn’t the will to resist. I clutched at his shoulders, my fingernails scoring his skin, and held my breath as the first swell of delight crashed over me. How could anything feel this delicious, this satisfying? If only I could capture it in my memories, hold it close, and feast upon it in hindsight.

As the waves of pleasure receded, I opened my eyes and regarded Elijah with no small degree of apprehension. I had been so wanton just now, writhing against his hand and begging him to make me come. Had I disgusted him with my lack of control?

Quite the contrary, for he looked inordinately pleased with himself. “The look on your face just now...”

“Yes?”

“...was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you. May I? I mean, would you like me to...?”

“This.” He placed my hand on his cock. “This is what I want.”

I wriggled down the bed, determined to get a closer look. His cock looked like nothing I had ever imagined. The skin so much darker than the paler hue of his abdomen and thighs. The coursing, pulsing veins that entwined its length. The engorged tip, as big and ripe as a Victoria plum. It really was rather fearsome in appearance, and had I been a trembling virgin bride I likely would have fainted dead away.

Fortunately I had never been one for fainting.

I wrapped my hand around it, marveling at the smoothness of the heated skin beneath my fingers, and squeezed as tight as I dared.

“Is this correct? I’m not certain what I should—”

“That. And this.” His hand covered mine, dwarfing it, and he showed me what to do. “Up and down, like this. As fast or slow as you like.”

“That’s all?”

“You can lick or kiss me, or even suck on it—but only if you wish.”

At that I smiled, ducked my head and took the end of his cock in my mouth. It was too big for me to do much more than kiss the end, but I kept up the back-and-forth movements with my hand as I sucked and soon found a workable rhythm.

He watched me as I labored, his eyes half-shut, the weight of his upper body resting on his elbows. It was bewitching, knowing he was watching me, knowing the pleasure I was bringing him, and soon every swipe of my tongue against the head of his cock make the place between my legs, sated with passion only minutes before, tighten and throb most persistently.

“Enough,” he burst out. “I’ll come all over your hand if you keep that up.”

Though I had been enjoying myself, I was more than ready for what came next. He rolled me onto my back and pushed my knees up, pressing my legs open so he might cradle his body between them. Again I felt the beguiling pressure of his body against my sex, only this time nothing separated us.

Without his asking I reached between us and grasped his cock, eager to have it inside me at last, and guided him to my opening. He pushed in slowly, only an inch or two, then hesitated, his entire body trembling.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Trying to hold back. Don’t want to hurt you.”

The effort to restrain himself must have been considerable, for sweat had gathered on his forehead and the muscles in his arms and shoulders felt like granite under my hands.

“More,” I begged. “I want more. I want all of you.”

He drew back his head so he might look me in the eye, fixing me with his mesmerizing silver stare. Then he pushed forward, surely and inexorably, until his stones were snug against my bottom and the weight and heat and smell of him was inside me, atop me, surrounding me entirely.

He held himself perfectly still for long seconds, not moving, his gaze riveted to mine.

“Christ, Alice,” he whispered. “What is this?”

It seemed he expected no answer, for he closed his eyes and began to drive in and out of me. I thought of how he had climbed the wall of granite on the road to Argentière, and how he was conquering my body in precisely the same way—relentless, unflagging, utterly controlled.