Chapter 28
It was very early in the morning, and yet not quite dawn, when Oliver carried Cecily into his chamber at Bellemont—the poor angel was exhausted, having been unable to close her eyes the whole of the bumping, harried ride. But as tired as she was, her eyes were bright with curiosity as she looked around the room that had once belonged to August.
He thought perhaps their child would be born in this room, and the thought caused his heart to skip clumsily.
Argo and two servants followed them into the chamber, carrying one of Cecily’s satchels and a tray of food and drink.
“Is there anything else you require of me, my lord?” Argo asked as the servants deposited their burdens and swept out of the room, yawning and rubbing at their eyes. Argo himself looked mussed, and Oliver was certain that he had been roused from his bed at word that a lone carriage was demanding entry to Bellemont.
“Send a pair of soldiers to roost some distance away from Fallstowe. Have them keep watch over the goings on there, and instruct one to report back to me this evening. Send a fresh man in his place when you see that he has returned.”
He set Cecily on her feet and she turned away, her cheeks pale, as she swirled her cloak over August’s favorite armchair and then began to dismantle her headpiece and veil.
“As you wish, my lord,” Argo said with a shallow bow.
“And make sure they understand that they are not to engage or draw attention in any way—from anyone. Fallstowe will be vigilant and if they are discovered, they will likely be killed.”
“I understand,” Argo assured Oliver. “Good ... er, morning my lord, Lady Bellecote.”
The door was still closing when Cecily whirled around, a gentle smile on her face. “Oliver, I am Lady Bellecote.”
He crossed the room to wrap his arms about her middle and she laughed as she smoothed her hands up his chest. “You certainly are. Are you happy?”
Cecily nodded. “Happier than I’ve ever been. I can hardly wait to see my new home.”
“It will be my deepest honor to accompany you,” Oliver said, and then dropped a kiss on her nose. “Bellemont cannot boast of a dangerous, superstitious old ruin, but we do have a waterfall that is quite lovely.”
“You do?” she asked, delight clear in her face. “That sounds much more to my liking. Is it far?”
He took the hand not of her injured arm and led her to the window. With only slight effort, the pane gave way with a rusty sounding creak and the cold, crisp air blew their hair back as it dashed into the room to play. His arm cleaved the black beyond the window frame as he pointed to the west.
“See you the outlines of those two hills?” She nodded, peering into the dark. “In that valley lies a deep lake, fed by that waterfall. August and I would swim there when we were boys.”
“Will you take me there?” she asked, a smile in her voice.
“I’ll take you anywhere you wish, wife,” he whispered near her ear.
The wind threw a rogue tendril of her hair across her mouth, and Oliver brought up his hand to scrape it away before cupping her cheek in his hand and kissing her gently.
“How about bed?” she murmured against his lips.
Oliver stilled and drew away. “Cecily, your arm—”
She actually laughed. “The first time we made love,
your
arm was
broken,
but you performed well enough to get a child on me.”
Oliver felt his face heat. “Well, it’s not everyday you meet such a ravishing beauty in the midst of a crumbling pile of rocks, is it? But, speaking of our baby ... ”
“It’s fine, Oliver,” Cecily assured him quietly, and she reached up with one hand to run her fingers through the hair over his ear. “It will be fine. You can be gentle, can’t you?”
Oliver felt his desire for her burst into flame like an oil lamp thrown into old hay. The cold breeze through the window, belying the heat of his passion, only fanned his want of her. “Oh, I daresay I can be very gentle.”
He pulled her to him fully and kissed her while the wind caressed them both, stinging their skin, whispering of nature’s own tempest, unseen but very real. A whicker of noise drew Oliver’s attention, and his eyes opened to look for the source of the sound.
Over Cecily’s shoulder, on the wide table, sat August’s bound journal. The wind was fanning the pages so that Sybilla Foxe seemed to dance with joyful abandon across the pages. Another stiff gust of air, and the heavy chalice above it toppled, sending the cup of Fallstowe coins spilling onto the book, stopping the dance. Oliver felt a chill on the back of his neck.
“What is it?” Cecily asked worriedly, drawing her head back.
“Nothing,” Oliver said, bringing his eyes back to her face and giving her a smile. He drew away slightly to close the window. “Just things blowing about. Do you need help changing?”
She gave him a sly smile. “I don’t think so.” And then she walked behind the tall dressing screen.
Oliver began unlacing his shirt, and strolled to the table. He let his fingers fall onto the open book. The coins had spilled over one of the blank pages—there was no haunting sketch to taint the moment.
All the same, Oliver gently pushed the coins onto the table with a shower of muffled clinks and then closed the book.
“Sorry, old chap,” he whispered, and tapped the book twice with his forefinger.
He turned then, and noticed Cecily’s satchel still sitting on the floor by the chair. He walked toward it, chuckling. “I think you’ve forgotten something, my dear,” he said as he swiped up the bag and turned toward the screen.
“I didn’t forget anything,” Cecily said, stepping from behind the cover, completely nude.
The satchel fell from Oliver’s hand and landed on the rug with a thud.
Cecily felt a delicious, warm spiral of desire in her stomach at the way Oliver was looking at her, but when he continued to stare after several moments, she huffed and put her hands on her hips.
He shook his head suddenly. “Sorry—did you say something?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “But here I stand, clothed in only my skin, and you’ve not even removed your boots! Shall I dress again?”
“No! No, no, no!” Oliver rushed, lifting his leg and fighting with the top of his boot while he hopped toward her on one foot. “Only a moment, they practically fall off by themselves, I swear.
Aaagh!
”
Cecily brought her hands to her mouth and laughed as he fell over beyond the end of the bed.
“I’m all right,” he called out, and Cecily laughed harder at the struggling sounds she heard. “Nothing broken this time!”
In a blink, he appeared standing again, and this time Cecily doubled over, her hands at her stomach—he was completely nude.
But when he came to stand before her and wrapped his arms around her middle, his hot skin searing her cold flesh, the laughter stopped. She looked up into his eyes.
“I love you, Oliver,” she said solemnly. “You’re ... you’re ...”
“What?” he whispered on a smile. “What am I?”
“Perfect,” she finished. “Perfect, in every way.”
He kissed her slowly, gently. “And you, my lady are ...”
She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, but had to be satisfied with her injured arm lying atop his. “What?” she challenged in a husky whisper, pressing her breasts into his bare chest, drawing her foot up the rear of his calf.
Oliver growled, and then picked her up and took her to the bed, where he lay her down gently and covered her body with his. Cecily gasped as his mouth explored her breasts, her navel, her hips, thighs. “You are ... you are ...”
“Never mind,” she whispered, and he brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her while he explored her body with his hands. Her flesh was on fire, her body ached for him.
When he had taken her in the Foxe Ring, their coupling had been frantic, violent, passionate to the point of fear. But now, lying in his bed, Cecily felt an even more frightening depth of desire for him. Passion that meant giving her whole self over to him completely, forever. Until eternity had passed away.
He was true to his word, and took her gently, his deliberateness causing her to cry out. He slowly, incrementally increased his pace, rocking her into the mattress until she panted his name.
And then her time was come, and tears ran into her hairline as the universe brightened around her, the sun rising in that moment through the windowpane.
He was only a heartbeat behind her, giving a strangled cry, holding himself so still, and she looked upon his face, enchanted by the glory of him. Her husband.
He disentangled himself gently and lay down at her side, panting, pulling her close, covering her face in kisses.
She giggled and kissed him back. “I’m cold,” she complained.
“Already playing the harping wife, are you?” He reached behind him and pulled the coverlet over them both, the cold, stiff embroidery bringing a little extra chill at first, and Cecily snuggled into Oliver’s chest.
“Perhaps I will be a harping wife,” she said on a happy sigh. “Isn’t that a delightful notion? I vow it’s better than being a saint.” She paused and looked up at him with a warning glare. “Oliver, if you call me a saint in this moment, I vow I will strike you.”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t dare.” He stroked her face with the back of his fingers. “You, Lady Bellecote, are a perfect scoundrel.”