The Changeling Bride (24 page)

“I can barely trace my family three generations, and our name was made up by my grandparents. They thought their real name was too difficult to pronounce in English.”

“Then perhaps it is foolish of me to hope that you can understand.” He stared into the dark for a moment. “It is as if I, and the efforts I make to preserve my home
and continue the line, are but a page in a book. No more important than what has come before, but still necessary for the continuation of the story. I have lived my life knowing that there would be pages after my own: many pages. It has been my comfort and a source of strength.”

“Then I envy you that. My page has been torn free and is blown by the wind. Not that it was much of a book to begin with.”

He turned to her, meeting her eyes with his own, which were dark and compelling. “Elle, when we married you became a part of that book that is my heritage. Our children—and our children’s children—will continue on long after we are gone. A hundred years from now, a young boy will walk the gallery of portraits of his ancestors, searching out his face in those that came before. He may have eyes the color of the forest, and he will pause before your portrait, seeing that you are the source of those eyes. His father will tell him who you were and tell stories about you that have become a part of the family history.”

An unbidden image came to her, of the line of Henry’s ancestors stretching behind the two of them, and another line, equally long, of descendents stretching before them, the two lines meeting at she and Henry, as if they were trapped between two mirrors, reflecting each other into eternity.

“Where I come from,” she said, “the future is one of uncertainty. I may know what today looks like, but tomorrow will be different. What was here will be gone, something new replacing it. No one lives in the same place for more than a few years, and families are scattered. Permanence exists only in fantasy. Where I come from, we are all loose sheets of paper, tossed and blown. There is no immortality through family for us.”

He touched her cheek. “It sounds frightening.”

“And your world sounds confining.”

He sighed and dropped his hand, then moved to the
wooden chair and sat, slouching down slightly, his legs stretched in front of him. He was wearing the robe he had worn on their wedding night, and it parted to reveal one knee and part of his thigh, lightly shadowed with black hair.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, and there was neither impatience nor exasperation in his voice.

She sank to the floor between the fire and his legs, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Be patient, get to know me, let me do as I wish.”

He laughed without humor. “And what do I get in return?”

“I’ll be patient, get to know you, and let you do as you wish.”

“That is not exactly what I had in mind. Unless, of course, doing as I wish includes this,” he said, and leant forward, his fingers sliding into her damp hair, cupping the back of her head and bringing her towards him. The kiss was slow and gentle, his lips languorous on her own. Her eyes closed and random, colored images played across her vision. She was lost in the sensation of his mouth on her own, the warmth and strength of his hand, the press of his leg against her arm, and the feel of his own silky hair when she reached up and touched it.

He ended the kiss long before she was ready and drew away from her, his fingers tracing a light trail across her face as he sat back. “Why did you come in here?”

She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. “I heard you in your dressing room.”

“You thought I had gone.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Have you changed your mind about what we discussed?”

Elle gave him a sharp glance from under her brows.

“Ah, well, I thought not. What was it, then, that made you come?”

Her hand gestured vaguely in the air, her glance skipping from his shoulder to his chin, to the back of his chair, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know. Curiosity? Boredom?”
Loneliness?
she added silently. She met his gaze. “Sometimes an argument can be as much of a bond as anything else. I was tired of wondering what you were thinking.”

His mouth tugged into a small sardonic smile. “I had not believed my thoughts mattered to you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t like feeling that someone is upset with me, or that they’ve misunderstood me, that’s all. And we are married, so it’s not like I could count on either you or the problem to go away.”

“That is a practical view to take.”

“I’m not often impractical, not that my recent behavior would show it. Your company seems to bring out the worst in me.”

He laughed. “It is an affliction that we share.”

“You’re not angry with me, about the children thing?”

“Frustrated, perhaps. Angry with the situation and with your fears, but I cannot blame you for having them, and perhaps I am relieved that you explained yourself to me. I had never considered the situation from the woman’s point of view.”

“It’s not that I don’t ever want to have children. I’m just not ready yet to take the risk.”

“And when will you be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Elle . . . I will try to be patient, but in this matter there are limits. Eventually, you will have no choice. If you cannot master your fears on your own, then at some point we will have to proceed despite them.”

Anger born of fear sprang up within her, and she bit it down. She knew it was there because she was helpless. “I am willing to share your bed on occasion if I can use the method I tried to tell you about, the one with the
sponges. How much time will you give me before we try for children?”

He looked at her, and she could sense the considerations he weighed in his mind. “Six months.”

“Two years.”

“That is completely unacceptable. Nine months.”

“A year and a half.”

“Impossible. One year. No more.”

“One year,” she repeated. A lot could happen in a year. She could even hope that a way home would reveal itself in that time. If not that, perhaps by then she would know enough about this world to escape her marriage and live on her own terms. Or maybe she would be so unhappy that she wouldn’t care if she died in childbed. “I can accept that.”

“And in the meantime, you will share my bed every night.”

Her lips parted in protest.

“We will take the precautions that you are so set upon. For one year.”

“But every night! It’s far too risky.” It was not just pregnancy she was thinking of now. She might grow close to him if she spent every night pressed against his body. God, she might risk falling for him, and that could only end badly. Either she would go home and miss him, or she would be stuck here and have her feelings unrequited.

“Come, Elle, you cannot have everything your way. You cannot tell me that you are too shy to share my bed.” He looked at her knowingly, and she felt the color rise in her cheeks.

“I’m not set up to sleep with you, not yet. I have to get my materials in order, cut up the sponges, squeeze lemons, count the days of my cycle . . .”

“There’s more than one way to make love to a woman.” He cocked his head to one side and rubbed the
small of her back with the toe of his foot. She sat up straight and tried in vain to avoid the toe.

“Don’t!”

He chuckled and dropped his foot back onto the ground. Before she could relax, he had his hands under her arms and was hauling her up into his lap. She sat as stiffly as she could on his thighs, trying to ignore the ridge of flesh that pressed against the side of her buttock. He pulled her closer to his chest with one arm, the other resting across her belly, the hand cupping her breast. He pressed his nose into the hair just behind her ear, and she squirmed as his tongue drew a line across her flesh.

His hand kneaded her breast, the thumb stroking gently over her nipple, and to her embarrassment, she felt a tingle and contraction in her loins. She didn’t want him to know he could arouse her so easily—she didn’t want him to know she was so vulnerable to his touch.

“Stop it,” she said, not as firmly as she had hoped. She covered the hand on her breast with her own.

“I do not think you want me to,” he breathed into her ear and licked her again. She raised her shoulder to her ear, trying to squeeze him away from her.

“This can only lead to trouble,” she pronounced primly, leaning away from him.

In answer he stood, lifting her easily in his arms. “Yes, but trouble for whom? I think you are afraid of your own reactions, my dear.”

The room swayed around her as he turned and strode to the bed, her legs dangling over one arm. “No, I’m afraid that you’ll get carried away,” she protested. He lowered her into the bed, the covers already turned down. He shrugged out of his robe and joined her before she could think to move. His heavy arm pinned her to the mattress. He rose up on his other elbow, looking down at her.

“Now that is an eminently reasonable fear.” His hand crept up and played with her nipple through the cloth of
her shift, and his face, barely visible now that the candle had burned out, took on a devilish cast. “However, I beg the chance to prove that it is yourself you fear more than the advances of your humble husband.”

“I really think I should sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“I suspect that what you think you should do and what you want to do are two very different things.”

“And what would you know about it?”

He let his hand glide down over the swells and indentations of her body, then stroke lightly over her belly. She felt shivers race over her skin, and her eyes gave a slow blink in reaction to the pleasure. “I know that, contrary to what you pretend, you enjoy my touch.”

“Maybe,” she grudgingly admitted, as his hand moved to her thighs, brushing lightly at where they joined before moving down her legs. He kissed her, his lips gentle against hers, asking rather than demanding. She responded to the request, her hand coming up behind his head, holding him more firmly against her, her lips seeking pleasure from his own. It was just kissing, she told herself. Surely harmless.

He raised his mouth from hers, smiling. “I will not annoy you with my slavering, lustful behavior. Unless you ask me to.”

She felt his hand pull up her nightgown, his warm palm sliding up her skin. She let her thighs relax and fall slightly away from each other, opening herself to him in a subtle invitation. A few inches more, please . . . she silently coaxed him. His thumb skimmed lightly over her, then his hand moved on, cupping her hip and then her waist.

She wanted him to touch her there. She knew it, but did not want to say it. Instead, she took hold of his hand and moved it to where she wanted it, closing her eyes and turning her face into his shoulder as she did.

He put his mouth to her exposed neck, kissing his way up to her earlobe, then softly pushed his fingers through
the curls of hair over her womanhood. He spread his fingers in a vee around her inner folds, gently massaging up and down. “Is this what you want?” he whispered in her ear.

She nodded against him.

“Tell me.”

“Yes,” she said.

His fingers slid lower, dipping inside her, then using her own wetness for lubrication. It was just petting, she told herself. She had done as much in high school. Harmless. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers, hungry for him now. She felt the ache of emptiness inside and pushed her hips against his hand.

He broke away from their kiss. “Tell me what you want.”

She tried to bring him back down to her mouth, but he resisted. “Tell me.”

“More. I want more.” She wanted to be naked against him, without the nightgown ruched about her waist. She wanted to feel his hips spreading her legs wide. She wanted him to take her without asking. She wanted the wantoness of the forest joining. But she knew she should not have any of that now.

He seemed to understand something of what she meant, though, and his mouth on hers was harder, pushing beyond leisured seduction. He plunged one finger deep inside her, stroking within as his thumb stroked her without.

She turned from his kiss as she built to her climax, pressing her cheek to his, her arms holding him tightly against her, and then the shuddering waves came, and she clenched her thighs around his hand, to keep him from moving.

When she had relaxed, he slowly withdrew his hand and pulled her nightgown down, then brought the covers up over them both. He kissed her damp brow and turned her on her side, fitting her backside against him. She
could feel his arousal pressed against her, but felt strangely certain that he would not seek his own satisfaction tonight.

She took his hand and held it between her own against her breasts, snuggling into his hold. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“My dear, for this there are never thanks necessary. The giving is as much a pleasure as the receiving.”

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingertips, then settled it back between her breasts. No man in her limited experience had ever given without expecting repayment the same night.

“All the same, I thank you.”

He chuckled softly behind her, and she slept.

Chapter Eighteen

Another day, another battle with her clothing. A sigh escaped Elle at the thought of the time, effort, and discomfort it would require for her to get dressed. She could remember days when she had thought it was asking too much for her to match leggings with a suitable sweater.

There was nothing to do but submit.

Forty minutes later she was prepared to meet the day, in a dark green gown that was looser fitting than it had been two days ago. Marianne had done an excellent job with her needle and thread, and Elle’s midriff was deeply appreciative. On her head she wore a doughnut-shaped turban affair of green and beige, with a pair of foot-long ostrich plumes standing straight up from her forehead. They bobbed when she moved her head and made her look, she thought, rather like a rabbit.

On her way down to the breakfast room she noticed there was an air of activity about the house that had been missing previously. Servants were moving about, disappearing
through doors and walking purposefully down hallways. Tatiana trotted up to her, smiling her Samoyed smile. Elle paused briefly in the doorway to the breakfast room, a small frown between her brows, watching three young men go by in the hallway carrying bolts of fabric.