The Lord of Illusion - 3 (22 page)

“But, Drystan,” she panted, her legs scrambling to keep up with him, “We do not know if any of these… things are dangerous.”

He laughed, tugging her along the path of glowing stones. “But I have you to protect me, do I not?”

“Hmph. That is very unfair of you.”

He laughed again, and this time infected her with his boyish enthusiasm. Camille smiled at him, and he squeezed her hand, leading her through a maze of wonders, stopping occasionally to poke and prod at some strange specimen while never letting loose of her, as if afraid she might run away. Which she felt tempted to do after hours of exploring.

“If this is a copy of Elhame,” he said much later, pulling open the black leaves of a spiky plant to reveal a pod covered with blue hairs, “I wonder what the entire world must be like.”

Camille’s feet had started to ache, and even though she had already shed her cloak and gloves, her thick winter underclothes began to itch from the warmth of the summer sun. “I would not want to find out.”

“Oh, it is rumored to be a peaceful place. The elven that broke through the barrier to our world are considered mad by their own people. I imagine that’s why they left Elfhame in the first place… perpetual boredom for those who lust for war and glory.”

“It is hard to imagine a kind elven lord.”

“Well, we might see for ourselves, if our key does open the doorway.”

He stood up, frowned at whatever expression had crossed her face, and tugged her along. “Do you hear water falling?”

Camille cocked her head. What with the birdsong—and the clapping, whistling, ringing plants—she could not distinguish any particular sound within the cacophony. But as they rounded a low hill she saw the waterfall, felt the cool spray across her face. The clear water tumbled over smooth white crystal stone and emptied into a shallow pond. A thick carpet of moss led to the water, and they both dropped their outer coats and sat, shoulders touching while they removed boots and stockings, then dunked their feet in the water.

“Aaah,” breathed Camille.

Drystan shed his coat and waistcoat—tossing them on their pile of outerwear, and flopped backward, crossing his arms behind his head, his hair a curly tangle of pale silk on the dark moss. Camille angled her head so she could look at him, admiring the broad chest outlined beneath the fine linen of his shirt, the fit of his buckskin breeches, the strong line of his jaw, the smooth fullness of his mouth. He crooked a grin. “I would like to kiss you, right here, right now. What say you, Camille?”

She caught her breath. “I would say you are too bold with your thoughts, sir.”

He leaned up on an elbow. “Are you frightened?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then come here.”

A shadow of snow shimmered around them.

“Quickly, my love, before my unpredictable magic fades and we are lost to winter once again.”

Camille leaned down and covered his mouth with hers. Faith, she could get used to kissing him. He tasted rich and salty, the skin of his mouth like the finest satin, his tongue like smooth velvet. He let her lead, and it gave her the confidence to press for more, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, melting down beside him in the moss.

His shirt had come untucked from his breeches, and she bunched up the fabric in her hand, then slid her palm beneath it, allowing her the wicked delight of touching the bare skin of his back. He groaned and pulled away to stare into her eyes.

“My arms and legs are not bound this time,” he said.

“I know.”

The look he gave her made her senses come fully alive. The shadow of snow receded as the illusion of the summer garden solidified once again. Dragonflies buzzed on the surface of the pond. A warm breeze blew the spray of the waterfall over them, a cool mist that bathed her cheeks and lips. She could not tear her gaze away from his golden brown eyes, for they shimmered with desire and intent and love.

Without even glancing at his hands, he slowly removed her belt of weapons. When she did not protest, he grinned, crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes. Drystan guided her upright as he rose to his feet, and then began to slowly unbutton her bodice. Camille looked up at him, and his gaze still did not waver as he smoothed her top off her shoulders, allowed it to fall at her feet. His fingers did not fumble at the ties of her stays, and when that garment dropped as well, her breath hitched, and he covered her mouth with his.

It seemed an eternity, or perhaps just a moment, before he removed the last of her clothing and clasped her hands, stepping back to allow his gaze to roam over her body in the bright sunlight. Camille felt her face heat—not from embarrassment, but hope. Hope that she pleased him.

“You are beautiful,” he said, his voice deep and husky.

If she could have spoken, she would have told him the same, but his own beauty left her speechless. His pale hair had loosened from the leather tie at the back of his neck, wavy strands curling about his high cheekbones and smooth forehead, the tips of his pointed ears parting the hair at the sides of his head. His dark brown brows and lashes made a startling contrast against his pale skin, making his eyes appear even larger than his elven blood already made them. A straight nose, a full mouth…

And as her gaze slid lower to the pulse at his throat, she realized he also stood naked before her. He had used magic to remove his clothing.

He might have also have made her clothing disappear, but instead chose to reveal her body a bit at a time.

Most unfair. For it took Camille several moments before she could fully take in the sight of Lord Hawkes’s naked skin in full light. Smooth and unblemished, with a sprinkle of hair at chest and… below. A testament to his elven blood. Broad shoulders of muscle, a tight stomach, lean hips, and muscular legs.

Camille would have liked to gaze at him longer, but he groaned and enfolded her in his arms, and the feel of all that bare skin against hers overwhelmed her every thought. His hands roamed her body, as if he sought to touch every inch of her, and she could only hold on to him, his desire leaving her breathless and her body trembling like a leaf in a gale.

The world spun a moment and she found herself on her back, the fur of her cloak beneath her, Drystan above, his lips following the same path his hands had already taken. Her eyes closed as she focused on the skin he suckled, licked, and stroked, not knowing where he would explore next, not really caring.

And then he spread her legs, his breath hot against her thighs, and continued his tender assault at her core, until she arched her back and cried out his name. With elven swiftness he moved up her body, caught the last of his name with his mouth, plunging his tongue between her lips at the same time he entered her.

Camille filled herself with Drystan.

He said her name again and again as he moved inside of her with a feverish intensity that made her wonder at his patience when they had made love the first time. For he held nothing back—his heart, his soul—within every thrust.

He threw back his head and arched into her, his body hot and pulsing against her. Inside of her. And she found a deeper pleasure that matched his own, until their pleasure became one, and they flew together for a timeless moment across a wave of ecstasy, tumbling down to earth with mingled sighs of complete fulfillment.

Drystan rolled over, taking her with him, their bodies a tangle of legs and arms, and he stroked her back, whispered his love for her, until Camille’s eyes threatened to water.

“I am hot. And hungry,” he said after a time, his stomach rumbling to punctuate his words.

“I am too content to eat.”

“Are you?” He rose abruptly, with her in his arms, amazing Camille again with his elven strength. Then he walked straight into the pond and sat, adjusting her on his lap, while cool water splashed over them, just beneath her breasts. She had not realized how heated she had been until he scooped up a handful of water and trickled it over her head. He leaned forward and licked a drop that trembled on the tip of her nose.

Camille cupped her hands and scooped water over his head, then licked the drops from his lips.

“Easy, my lady,” he breathed, “or you will find yourself back on the fur.”

“It is a good thought, my lord.”

“Shameful minx.”

And then he splashed her face with water.

Camille blinked, entirely taken aback, and stared at him. “Why did you do that?”

His lip quirked, and he splashed her again. Camille reflexively slapped her hand across the water in retaliation this time, spraying him with a healthy amount to his own face. His expression made her… giggle. She took another good aim, and did it again.

For the next hour they splashed about like unruly puppies, always touching one another, as if they could not bear to part for even such a short time.

Then he pulled her under the waterfall, kissing her while the liquid pounded about their joined bodies, and finally carried her out of the shallow pond, laying her gently on the fur.

“I am even hungrier, now,” said Drystan, smoothing his warm body next to hers, propping his head up with one arm to gaze intently at an empty patch of ground. His satisfied smile made her look in that direction, and she marveled at the feast that appeared on the moss.

“I could get used to this,” he said, “if only I could control it.”

“Then let us take advantage of it before it fades,” she replied, sitting up and reaching out for a red apple. It looked real, tasted tartly delicious, and hit her belly the same way real food did.

“Ah,” said Drystan, sitting so closely beside her that his hip melded with hers. He opened a silver serving dish filled with cakes laced with sugar, chocolate crumpets, and thick cream. He stuck his finger in the cream, and she obligingly opened her mouth, sucking it clean. They smiled at each other, and she could see desire flicker in the depths of those amber eyes yet again, but his expression slowly sobered.

“I shall make it my mission to feed you,” he said, “for I fear you are too thin for good health. Does Roden of Dreamhame not feed his slaves?”

Camille looked out over the garden, the moving swaying riot of color, and sighed. “Enough. But the only time I had any appetite was when I cared for the children, Rufus and Laura. And then for Lady Pembridge.”

Drystan stilled, his voice soothing and low. “Will you tell me of them?”

And so Camille recounted her times above stairs, leaving out any mention of the deaths of her charges, and her life of slavery, and Drystan did not press her for those accounts. Perhaps one day she would be ready to tell him those stories, but not here, not now.

And then he told her more of his life, of the fits the scepters had brought upon him, and how others had considered him mad or touched by the devil. It explained much about him. His loneliness and desire for books. The way he did not realize how utterly handsome and appealing he was.

Perhaps even his obsessive determination to chase after a dream.

Which Camille could now feel only grateful for.

He got up and pulled on his breeches, handed her his linen shirt with a smile. She put it on, rolled up the sleeves, and surreptitiously breathed in the scent of him that lingered in the fabric while he searched his coat pockets and withdrew two books.

Camille lay back with a sigh. Of course he would have some books on his person.

A cold wind swept through her hair, and she thought she saw a white haze from the corner of her eye. Then Drystan sat down next to her, his leg touching hers, and it faded. He opened the larger book and began to scratch out some notes.

Camille sat up and watched him quickly sketch the plants he had seen today, a map of the garden, and remarks beside the pictures. She offered her own observations, which he obliging wrote down.

When she began to fidget, he laid down his writing book with a smile, opened a smaller one, and read “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love.”

Her eyes watered yet again when he read the last line, and he sat and waited, as if he had asked her a question. The garden chirped and clapped and rang, occasionally blew a delicious scent reminiscent of roses and spice.

Could she be his love? She did not know. But he deserved an answer, and she tried to gather her thoughts to express her feelings… something she had never tried to do before. Something no one had ever asked of her. It had been long and long since anyone cared.

“How can I explain to you what it is like to be a slave?” Camille closed her eyes. “I remember when I was little I used to fight against the way my captors treated me. As if I had no rights… as if I had become a lesser person than anyone else. It enraged me, and I would fight back. I would demand to be treated as if my opinions—my life—still mattered. And then the men would take what they wanted anyway. If I made too many of them angry or tried to run, I would be beaten. And after days, after months, after years… I fought for so long to be strong that I lost pieces of myself—of my heart—along the way.”

Camille opened her eyes, gazed at his handsome face, at the sympathy etched across his perfect features. She did not want him to feel sorry for her; she just wanted him to understand. She lifted her chin and leveled her voice. “I do not know if I will ever be able to get those parts of me back—to regain what I have lost. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard you try… I am cursed… I am not a whole woman… there are so many reasons why I cannot ever offer what you are asking for.”