Authors: J. Jay Kamp
What they set to work doing next was more exquisite, more blissful, than ever she could have dreamed. He loved her with such a savagery, ’tis a wonder she lived to tell the tale. He planted kisses upon every part of her shivering body. He whispered the perfections of each limb and crevice so she felt his desire in the brush of his lips, and with each new passion he taught her, each loving instruction he gave in the pleasuring of his maleness, she grew more confident still that her desperate wish had at last come true: She’d found a husband.
And none too soon.
* * *
With many kisses, their liaison did eventually come to its end. “Even lovers must part,” he told her. Escorting her down to the door by candlelight, he untied the stallion, held out the reins.
She didn’t take them. “But we haven’t a need to part,” she insisted. “Father will give us his blessing, I know it, and then we’ll be married, I’d—”
“Go back to the house.” It’d changed somehow, that expression of contentment on his face. He was angry now. With something like a scowl, he looked away, repeated his request that she take Khali and ride out alone. “Think not about this night,” he said, and before she could argue, he’d boosted her into the saddle, then disappeared through the tower’s door.
She scarcely believed what had happened. In bliss and bewilderment, she caught up the stallion’s reins, pushed the horse hard to a hammering gallop.
Think not about it?
How could she not? She’d dwell upon this night, relive it a thousand times from beneath her sheets until the maids had broken down her bedroom door! She’d shout the news to the stable boys, to old Scott in the hallway, to anyone who crossed her path—that she’d found her heart’s beating desire, the twin to her emotional soul, and he
was not Christian Hallett!
* * *
Of course, there was one person with whom she wouldn’t discuss her sudden joy. As if apprised of the affair, Christian arrived the very next day, and Elizabeth was in a panic when she heard his voice at the foot of the stairs.
Pleading illness, she had the steward send him away. She knew Christian would see it on her face, the new woman she’d become, and then he’d insult her, name her harlot or slut, and he’d have no idea the pain she felt.
For pain she did feel, and a great deal of it, too. Hardly five minutes before Christian had arrived, Sarah had woken her with the sorry news. “Killiney’s departed for London, m’lady.”
All the colour drained from her face at the maid’s announcement. It’d be just a short trip to Deptford, Sarah explained, only two weeks at most, and Lord Broughton would return him safe; need Elizabeth appear so grim?
But her mistress’s heart was sinking now.
Killiney gone?
He’d have bid her farewell, surely, cast her a secret glance when James wasn’t looking, maybe breathed her a kiss across the room. He’d have done
something
…wouldn’t he have? Or was a marquess’s illegitimate daughter not good enough to marry an Irish viscount?
* * *
When they returned in two weeks’ time, Elizabeth gave no indication she’d missed Killiney in the slightest. Everything was as usual in the house. No looks were exchanged, no secret meetings were arranged or implied, and she let on nothing that’d reveal her connection to him.
This new, cool demeanour didn’t last long. Just one evening, to be exact, for the next morning Killiney let himself into her bedroom chambers. He sent Sarah off with some paltry excuse, and settling back on the pillows with Elizabeth trembling under his arm, he kissed her full on the mouth, deeply, as ever a lover would.
Of course her head swam with joy. His lips were warm, brimming with promise, and his fingertips stroked with such affection that she soon forgot all about her fears, especially when he whispered, “I’ve a need for you, my Lady Elizabeth.”
As his hands were laced through her hair, she guessed what that need might be. “Did you miss me?” She kissed him, letting her tongue mingle with his. “You know you’ve only to name it, and I’ll perform whatever service you require.”
“
Whatever
I require?”
She smiled. “Absolutely, my lord.”
“All right, then. Can you interpret dreams?”
“Tell me the dream,” she purred into his ear.
Killiney raised a brow. “You’d really hear it? It’s a very important dream, and we must decipher its meaning because she’s trying to tell me something, I know it.”
“She?” Drawing back, Elizabeth frowned. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected to hear. “You’ve dreamt of another woman, my lord?”
“My angel. My lover. In this dream, she’s my wife, but I think she’s an angel, a spitfire with an angel’s face, a siren with tresses like Spanish gold.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, feeling the first stabs of dread in her heart.
There’s someone else
.
He’s only cloaked her in this stupid dream to gage my reaction, to break the news in a gentle way
.
But Killiney was still talking. “You see, I’m always back home in Dublin in this dream. She’s mistress of Swallowhill, but she’s changed so many things—the furnishings, the paintings, even the privies she’s altered while I’ve been away. And she’s put these curious lamps in the house, the strangest things you ever saw because they never flicker—”
“They don’t?” Elizabeth opened her eyes, thinking of Mr Orchard’s story. “Because they have no flame, these lamps?”
“You’ve dreamed of them, too?”
“Just go on,” she said.
“But there is no more.” Killiney shrugged. “Every night it’s always the same. I walk into the house, I stumble about from room to room and stare at the furnishings until at last she comes home, from university, she says, and when she finally stops shouting, I make love to her, right there on the drawing room floor.”
“She goes to university?”
“To Trinity College, yes.”
Elizabeth didn’t counter that girls weren’t permitted at any college she knew of. Instead, she was thinking of Mr Orchard’s potion. Connecting the two stories, Mr Orchard’s insistence that his was no ordinary dream and Killiney’s belief that this angel was more than a fantasy, Elizabeth came to the conclusion fast:
They’d had the same dream, visited the same incredible realm
.
Thinking so, she started to form a strategy. She listened intently to Killiney, but she was scheming in the midst of everything he said.
“So you’ll help me find someone to interpret this dream?” he asked. “Because for two weeks I’ve had it, every night without fail, and it means something, I tell you—I’m meant to reach her, to possess her and marry her and make her mine.”
Elizabeth turned away with a sigh. Her need to triumph over this imaginary woman, to win Killiney back, this kept her composed, but inside she was sinking.
How could he possibly love a dream when, lying in his arms, she would have given him anything he wanted, didn’t he know that?
“You don’t need a seer,” she said at last, and leaning close, she skimmed his lips with a kiss. “I can do better still, my lord. I can make your angel real.”
“What do you mean?”
Seeing that slant of captivation on his brow, she set about telling Mr Orchard’s tale—the potion, the fireless lamps, the lady’s bedchamber—and tailoring the story to suit her wants, she lied to her heart’s content. “It was an Indian woman who gave Orchard this potion,” she said. “This woman insisted they drink it together, and because its magic only worked with the passion of lovers in an outdoor setting, Mr Orchard coupled with the Indian maiden, right there on the beach.”
“And you believe this?”
“Would a clergyman lie?”
“I’d sooner believe he’d lie than ever couple with a savage woman.”
“But he did,” she insisted, and grasping for proof to keep Killiney listening, she told him about the box Mr Orchard had seen by the bed. How had he described it?
Children in that box
, he’d said, and Elizabeth repeated it word for word. “Like the most perfect painting in the world, my lord. Surely you saw such a box in your dream?”
This was all Elizabeth needed to win. Killiney
had
seen one. Thus she’d convinced him, and soon he was reasoning he’d really nothing to lose if he did as she asked. He begged to know when they could drink of this potion, perform this intimate act in the ruins, for what better place was there to bring about this magic but at nearby Swaneton Castle?
There was just one problem. She didn’t actually possess the liquid. Mr Orchard hadn’t sent it, and since Killiney had just spent two weeks with the man on board
Discovery
, mightn’t the viscount write the letter to ask for it?
Killiney nodded. “I’ll send it out tonight.”
And with a quick, hard press of his lips, he kissed her and hurried out the door.
* * *
Now whether she believed in either Mr Orchard’s story or Killiney’s dreams, ’twas of no consequence. The point of going to the ruined castle was to make Killiney see he needed not a dream mistress, but the warmth and desire of a real woman.
’Twas only the next day she realised the extent of the task.
He wasn’t cold to her. Indeed, he was mostly as he’d always been, but that was just the point—could his dream really mean so much? After their secret night in the tower, how could he speak so affably to Elizabeth? As if they’d never kissed, as if she were merely a passing acquaintance.
All the day they sat in the drawing room across from one another. James ignored them both, brooding in the corner over some letter he’d received, and with every opportunity for signaling and discreet glances, Killiney did nothing. Not one meaningful look did he give her. When they spoke, he didn’t question her with any genuine curiosity. He goaded her into talking about Vienna when ’twas plain he didn’t care, and as she described it, his eyes glazed over with distant thoughts. His mind was elsewhere. On angels, no doubt.
The longer this went on, the angrier she became. Still, she let on nothing. She kept her composure and try’d to remain aloof, until finally she could take no more; by eventide, she’d grown tired of having him ask about Mozart’s premiere of
The Abduction from a Seraglio
and portraying it for him in the greatest detail, only to see him gaze steadily at the table. Why should she accommodate him? For what reason should she fill the air with empty words, behaving as if she felt nothing?
She took her supper upstairs. She try’d not to think about his amiable disinterest with as much force of will as she could muster until, catching his voice at the foot of the stairs, she heard him arguing again with her father.
“I know, my lord,” Killiney fairly shouted, “but I’ll just check on him anyway. I’ll only be a moment.”
A stabbing sensation went through Elizabeth.
He was checking on his horse
. Should she follow as before? His demonstrations of boredom, his apathetic questions, had he orchestrated these things in the name of keeping their meetings secret?
He was stroking his horse’s nose when she arrived in the stable. She rushed in noisily, fully expecting to throw herself into his arms, but when he looked up sharply at the sound of her feet, her hopes faded.
’Twas plain he’d not been waiting for her.
So she told him she’d come to discuss their arrangements. How did he intend to conceal their liaison? Or would he tell James, confess the whole of it?
Killiney cocked his head to one side. “Broughton knows nothing, my Mary,” he said. “Not of the dream, the potion, or of us.”
With that, he turned back to the horse with affection, but Elizabeth hardly noticed his disdain; she was too stunned by what he’d said.
He’d used her middle name
.
You must understand, both Killiney and James used their middle names, and almost as if they regarded that use as a mark of superiority, of privilege. For Killiney to have called her thus meant just one thing—that he considered her his equal.
Nonetheless Elizabeth was furious. Not because he’d bestowed this honour, but for the way he’d used it to temper his words: James knew nothing, and wouldn’t, so long as Killiney had his way.
With her face flushed with anger, she accosted him. “Am I not good enough to be your wife? Can that be why you call me Mary?” She watched as Killiney studied the bits of weed in the stallion’s mane. He picked at the burs; he try’d to untangle the strands until she thought she’d go mad with waiting. “Are you listening to me?” she asked, grabbing his arm.
With her touch, he turned. All the fire, the contemptible fury she’d expected to see, all that was missing when he swung his gaze to hers. Leaning toward her only a little, his eyes travelled slowly over her features. His stare seemed as intimate as a caress, and her pulse quickened when he stroked the hair away from her shoulder.
He kissed her then. Pulling her close, his strong hands found their way to her hips. His silken mouth breathed against hers, imploring, ever more hungry to receive her until at last she could withstand no longer. How could she be angry? ’Twas as if he needed her from the depths of his soul, and she gave him everything, all he asked for in that kiss until she thought she would die, loving him so.
When at last he’d withdrawn, she heard pain in his voice. “Do you know how weary my heart is, my Mary?”
She shook her head.
“I think tomorrow I’ll sleep the whole day through,” he said, stepping away from her. “That should cure me of weariness, I’ll wager: twenty-four hours in the arms of an angel.”
And before she could say a word, he’d turned her around, walked her back toward the house in the dark. His
angel
, his
wife
…like torture, it was. She hated him, despised his need for an imaginary woman, a piece of fiction, a fantasy.
Still she said nothing. After all, that was exactly what would persuade him of how he actually loved Elizabeth—nothing. She’d wait for the potion to do it, because when no angel presented herself, who would be there to console Killiney? Who’d kiss him the way he needed to be kissed?
* * *
When Killiney and James rode out the next day, Elizabeth asked to go with them. ’Twas part of her scheme, the one she’d designed to speed things forward, and she didn’t mind at all when James refused her. At least he’d seen Elizabeth’s face. She’d gazed longingly at her love, obviously pining for his attention and making plain their intimate relations with nothing so much as the strength of her stare.