The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (30 page)

Her hands fisted in his hair as she pressed him to her breast, wanting more. When he began to suckle her, she thought she’d go mad with wanting.

“Now, Jack,” she said again, wriggling against him. “Please.”

“Now what, Emmaline my sweet? Say it. Say it now,” he ordered hoarsely.

What did he want her to say?

And then somehow she knew—knew exactly what words to say to set him over the edge, to make him give her exactly what she wanted. “Fuck me now. Now, Jack.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath, saw his pupils dilate, and her heart soared with victory. Next thing she knew, he’d dragged her to her feet and bent her over the bench, her skirt somehow gathered around her waist. Glancing over one shoulder, she watched as he hastily unfastened his trousers and reached inside his drawers to free his erection.

She let out her breath in a rush of anticipation, gripping the back of the bench so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She arched her back, gasping softly when she felt his fingers tug down her knickers, baring her entirely to his sight.

“Dear God, Emmaline,” he said with a sigh, his movements slower now. She felt a finger slide down her cleft, parting her. She was already wet and ready for him, aching to feel him inside her.

Instead, he stroked her, teasing her clitoris while he slipped
one finger into her sex. “You’re so very beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with desire.

It was as if everything around them ceased to exist—the garden, the cloudless sky, the chirruping birds. It was just the two of them there, in some other plane of existence where nothing mattered but their pleasure. Her legs grew weak, her breath coming far too fast now as he continued to stroke her, pushing her closer and closer to release. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand the exquisite sensations another second, he stopped, withdrawing his wicked fingers.

A moment later, she felt the tip of him pressing against her slick entrance. With one thrust, he buried himself fully inside her. Instinctively, she arched further, taking him in even more deeply, wanting nothing more than to be filled by him. His fingers dug into her hips as he clutched her to him, her name a whisper on his lips.

In the distance, a motorcar rumbled down the road. A horn sounded, perhaps in greeting. She didn’t know, didn’t care. All that mattered was Jack pressing against her backside, pumping into her now with a steady rhythm that made ripples of pleasure begin to radiate from her core.

The force of her orgasm caught her entirely off guard, making her knees buckle slightly as she leaned into the bench for support. Behind her, Jack groaned, finding his own release just in time to make hers even more intense than she’d thought possible.

His head dropped to her shoulder, his lips pressing against her as he murmured her name, over and over again. It was only when his body began to tremble against hers that she remembered his weakened state. Alarm shot through her at once, and she moved away from him, wincing as he slipped out of her, leaving her cold and empty.

“Good heavens, Jack,” she cried, quickly pulling up her
knickers and smoothing down her skirt. “You must sit down. Here.” She guided him back to the seat, her breath catching as he slumped down with a sigh.

“I’m fine,” he said, smiling drowsily as he fastened his trousers. “More than fine, really. Honest to God.”

She shook her head. “I think we should get you back inside. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

His eyes danced with mischief. “That
was
rather exciting, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps it was,” she said, rather annoyed with herself for risking his health yet again. “But now I’m ordering you back to bed.”

“Bed, you say? Please tell me you’ll be joining me there.”

She glanced over at the roses she’d neglected. “I’ve still some work to do here in the garden. You should get some rest, and I’ll wake you in time for tea.” She needed to get away from him, to rid herself of the distraction, or she’d never get anything accomplished.

“Oh, very well,” he grumbled.

Emmaline couldn’t help but smile. It was easy to imagine what he must have been like as a boy. “That’s the spirit,” she said cheerfully. “Why, we’ll have you better in no time.”

But as soon as the words left her lips, she wished she could take them back. Her smile disappeared at once. Because as soon as he was well, he’d be leaving her—leaving Orchard House, and Haverham. Or worse still, making
her
leave Orchard House. That was why he’d come, after all. To put her out.

Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to meet his. All the mischief and merriment had completely fled his features. Was he thinking the same thing she was? Likely so, she realized. There was no getting around it—they were on borrowed time, and every step he took toward recovery meant a step away from her.

Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she would not let them fall. Soon enough, she’d be alone again. And then she’d have all the time in the world for tears.

Jack heard a gasp, felt a movement beside him in the dark. In the distance, thunder rumbled. He heard a whimper, realized it was Emmaline. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and reached for her just as a flash of lightning illuminated the room. “Emma?” he whispered, touching her shoulder. “Emmaline?”

She didn’t respond. A crash of thunder rattled the windowpane beside the bed. He heard Emmaline’s sharp intake of breath, felt her body trembling.

Because of the storm?

It didn’t make sense. Emmaline was strong, perhaps the strongest woman he’d ever met. What was a storm, compared to the war and its horrors?

When the next flash of lightning lit the sky, he saw that her hands were pressed against her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. “Emmaline?” He shook her shoulder this time, leaning over her prone form.

“Stay down,” she murmured. “Trench mortars. Nerve gas…” Her voice trailed off as she rolled to her side, her legs drawn up to her belly.

“No, no, it’s just thunder. A storm.” He cupped her cheek with his palm, surprised to find it damp. “Emmaline?”

Another crash of thunder shook the glass, and she sat up with a gasp. “What…what happened?” she stammered. “Where am I?”

She’d been sleeping, he realized. Dreaming.

“Home, love. At Orchard House.” He drew her against his chest. Her heart was beating wildly.

“Jack?” Her fingers dug into his flesh.

“I’m here,” he answered, pressing a kiss against her temple.

She let out her breath in a rush. “Dear God, Jack. I had a dream, a terrible nightmare. I was back at the front, and you were there. You and Christopher. There were mortars going off everywhere, and I was trying to get to both of you at once, trying to…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I could not save you, not both of you.”

“Shh,” he murmured against her hair. “It was just a dream, probably triggered by the thunder. But you’re safe, everyone’s safe.” Except Chris, of course, who was beyond being saved. Jack wondered whom she’d chosen in her dream, but didn’t dare ask.

She began to cry, hot tears scalding his chest. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

Perhaps that was his answer?

“Don’t cry, Emmaline.” He couldn’t bear to watch a woman cry, particularly if he’d played a part in it. And it seemed he had—at least, in her dream.

At once, rain began to pelt the glass. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed as the storm reached its climax. He held her tight, murmuring soothing words as she continued to sob. By the time the storm subsided, her tears were reduced to sniffles and she lay against his shoulder, spent.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said at last. “I’ve no idea what came over me. The dream…it was so very real. I could hear the mortars, smell the smoke in the air, and I was helpless to do anything. It was like losing Christopher all over again. And you—” she shook her head “—I didn’t want to lose you, too.”

He didn’t know what to say in reply, didn’t know what she wanted to hear. He’d hoped beyond reason that there was a future for them, but had feared that she wasn’t quite ready,
that this had only been an interlude of sorts, as far as she was concerned.

“Oh, I know I’ve no claim on you,” she continued. “It’s just that the thought of you leaving, of finding myself all alone again—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Emmaline,” he interjected, buying time. “Not just yet. The quarantine, remember?”

“Yes, yes, of course. The quarantine.” Raising up on one elbow, she peered down at him sharply. “You must tell me, Jack—is there someone at home, waiting for you? Someone who…well, who would not be happy to know what we’ve done here?”

He swallowed hard before replying. He had to tell her the truth—there was no other way. “I was engaged until very recently,” he said simply.

“What happened?”

He should have known it would not be that easy. “I called off the wedding. Despite my assurances to the contrary, she is not convinced that I won’t change my mind, given time.”

“Do you love her?” Emmaline asked.

The pain in her voice slashed through his heart. “I did love her once. Perhaps I still do,” he answered truthfully. “But whatever I felt with her, it’s nothing compared to what I feel with you. I know it sounds trite, but damn it, Emmaline, it’s the truth.”

She nodded, biting her lower lip. For a moment, she said nothing, and Jack let out a sigh of relief. But then came the question he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “How long? Since you broke off the engagement, I mean.”

This was where it would get dicey. What would she think of him if he told her the truth? That it had only been a matter of weeks? After all, her husband had been dead for nearly a year, and her feelings for him still lingered. Yet he could not
possibly lie to her, not if he wanted a future with her. And he
did
want a future with her, goddamn it.

“It was recent, wasn’t it?” she asked when he remained silent. “I thought as much.”

There was nothing to do but say it. “Three, maybe four weeks.” And now she’d think that he’d used her, an easy fuck to help him get past the heartache.

She reached a still-trembling hand up to his cheek. “It’s all right, Jack. Perhaps…perhaps we both needed this. To forget the past, to move on with our lives.”

No,
he wanted to yell. No. It was more than that. He squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to push her on the matter, to try and make her see the truth. Because upon closer inspection, the truth seemed mad—that he’d somehow managed to entirely forget the woman that he’d loved for several years, the woman he’d planned to marry, and fallen in love with
her
instead, in less than a fortnight, and with him barely conscious a good portion of that time.

Why would any sane person believe that? It was far easier to believe that he’d been using her—and worse still, she made it sound as if she’d been using him, too.

“I’ll cherish this time we had together,” she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. “Always.”

Just like that, she’d dismissed him.

Yet when she rolled atop him, he did not push her away. If she wanted to use him yet again, then by God, weak and desperate fool that he was, he would let her.

7

“WHAT’S THIS?” EMMALINE ASKED, REACHING for the ragged leather book that Jack held in his hands. The cover was battered and scarred, some sort of Celtic symbol etched in gold leaf that was crumbling away.

Jack readjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles he wore when reading. “Funny you should ask—it’s quite curious, really. I found it tucked in a drawer, over behind the shelves in the back. It appears to be a book of legends, and there was a note card tucked into this spot, here.” He held the open book out to her. Around the margins, someone had scribbled notes in red ink.

“Well, what does it say?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“It’s the same story as the pantomime. You know, the one acted out at the Beltane festival, about the May Queen and her husband, the Winter King. And look—” he flipped the page over “—here’s a plate depicting the cuckolding Green Man, just like the etching on the bench in the garden.”

She shrugged. “It’s a fairly common image, Jack. There’s one carved in the gate, too—did you notice? Just above the peephole?”

“Ah, yes, the peephole.” He flipped several pages. “There’s
something here about that, too. According to the legend, that’s how the Winter King learned of the May Queen’s infidelity. He spied her in the arms of Green Man through the peephole.”

Emmaline couldn’t help but smile. “It’s not the same peephole, of course. This is just a story, a fancy bit of make-believe. It’s not about the garden here at Orchard House.”

“Why do you suppose there’s a peephole in a garden gate, anyway? What does one do in a garden that would require such a thing?” His hazel eyes were dancing with mischief behind the smudged lenses of his spectacles.

Emmaline felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered just what she and Jack had done in the garden not two days past. “I’m sure it’s just for decoration,” she murmured. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone might have spied on them, but now that the idea was planted in her mind, she’d never be able to dismiss the possibility. Good God!

“Anyway, whoever wrote these notes in the margin noticed the same similarities I did. Look, there’s even a well mentioned!” He’d become quite animated, Emmaline realized. The color was beginning to return to his cheeks, and his jaw suddenly looked less hollow.

She smiled, taking in the length of his legs stretched out from the leather chair where he sprawled. “It’s just a coincidence, Jack. Surely you realize that.”

He tapped the page with his finger. “And here the author talks about how the fruit shriveled up on the trees once the Green Man was banished to the garden. You’ve an orchard.”

“Yes,
outside
the garden walls. Come now, Jack, you’re just being silly.”

“Haven’t you ever felt…I don’t know, somewhat lusty out there?” he asked.

“What, in the garden?” she hedged, remembering the times she’d pleasured herself there, before Jack had arrived. She
had
felt somewhat lusty there, though she could not explain why. She’d only thought herself lonely at the time, missing a man’s touch.