Willing (13 page)

Much like the bees that bustled in the garden that afternoon, her head began to buzz softly. She swallowed, pulling her finger from her lips just as Alisdair reappeared at the door.

“Are you coming, Constance?”

The White Parlor was as described; a White and pristine sitting room, attached to an equally luxurious bedroom. There was a fainting couch, two high backed chairs and a small table, the perfect nook for having afternoon tea. It was tucked into the back corner of the house, its windows facing out onto the beautiful garden. Thomas showed her into the room, still clad only in her robe. Then he took his leave, letting her stew in the quiet space, little more to light it than the moon shining through the windows.

Constance moved around the room, her bare feet padding across hardwood and woven rug, touching the small trinkets on the mantle or running her fingers over the fine velvet of the couch. Curiosity quickly won and Constance moved into the attached bedroom, letting her fingertips search here, the satin of the bed linens, the cold, smooth wood of the bedposts. Finally she came to a small table by the window, a pair of frames settled there, the images within turned to each other as though in silent conversation. Constance bent down to inspect the pictures. There was a man in one, a woman in the other, both wearing what looked to be their wedding day finest. Their finest didn’t compare to the room in which they were displayed. They were strangely regular, almost familiar. They could have been her own parents, they looked so demure, so plain.

Plain, but happy.

“My father was a shoemaker.”

Constance startled, turning to meet the source of the voice. Alisdair stood in the doorway watching her, his shoulder settled against the doorjamb.

“Is this him? Your father?”

He nodded.

Constance leaned down to look closer, finally picking up the frame to hold it in the moonlight. He seemed a shorter, stockier breed than Alisdair, but the brow betrayed their familial connection – the brow and the dark, stern eyes. “My goodness.”

He smiled, nodding. “That was taken on their wedding day.”

“Were they in love?”

Alisdair crossed the room to her, holding the image of his mother for her to see as well. Though it was rare to see a smile in such a thing as a photograph, she did seem content.

“They were, yes. Love wasn’t quite enough for my father, though.”

“What do you mean?”

Alisdair took the picture from her hands and set them back on the table. “He loved my mother, but he wasn’t quite content. That is why he became what he was. I told you I’ve seen magic make fortunes?”

Constance nodded. He had indeed. She simply never imagined he referred to his own. “Yes?”

“I knew many of the servants here when I was young. We played together. Our fathers worked together. Now they work here for me. I pay as great a wage as I can offer, which I am happy to say, is quite generous.”

She thought of that hundred pounds Berty gambled away and didn’t doubt him for a moment.

“My father studied texts, taught himself to read and speak Latin. Once our fortunes began to turn, others of a like-minded way appeared, many of them are rather well off. Seems to go with the territory.”

Constance glanced around the room and at Alisdair, still clad in his shirt and suspenders, looking ready to work the docks as much as dictate a household. “Your father built all of this?”

“Well, no. He bought all of this. Someone else built it.”

“You know what I mean!”

She swatted at him and he snatched her hand, squeezing it before smiling at her.

“Couldn’t you share this with others? Perhaps help others turn their fortunes?”

“I do try. Sadly, not everyone has the stomach for this, and often those that do, you don’t want wielding any kind of power at all.”

Roman came to mind.

“I’ve taken Thomas as an apprentice. He shows promise, but sadly I cannot let the rest of the circle know. They wouldn’t want a layman infiltrating their ranks.”

“Like you?”

He smiled. “Like me.”

Constance took a deep breath. “Perhaps I should give it a try.”

“Oh, you’d be a force to be reckoned with.”

“You think so, but with my luck, they’d hang me as a witch.”

Alisdair shook his head. “I doubt it. Very few true witches were ever caught, dear Constance.”

She met his gaze in the dark, feeling the strange tension that existed between them. As she held his gaze, that familiar tension began to rise – just as it had that afternoon. Constance was alone in a bedroom with a man, well into the night hours, and Constance was wearing little more than a shawl around her naked frame. If this man wanted her, he could have her. For the first time in a very long time, it was her that wanted the man.

“Would be nice not to live in a brothel anymore.”

Alisdair moved toward her, leaning his shoulder into the wall beside her, his face now lit wholly by the full moon outside. “Yes, about that.”

She chuckled. “About what?”

“Would you agree to live here for a time?”

Constance’s mouth fell open as she searched his face. His expression was serene, but cautious. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am. It would benefit me greatly.”

“What? To have a live-in whore?”

He ignored the sentiment of her question. “You would have free reign of the grounds. Come and go as you please, of course. This would be your room, if it pleases you. And you may have your own valet if you so choose -”

“What about Berty? I can’t very well just leave the Keg and Barrel and expect them to accept me back when I’m done playing house in the country.”

“Constance, if you will stay with me, I assure you, you will have no need to return to the Keg and Barrel when we are done.”

She stopped, watching him a moment. “What does that mean?”

“It means that your financial situation will be vastly different when you leave here.”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how empty her stomach was. “What is the catch? There must be a catch.”

He smiled. “There is.”

He crossed the room to the mantle, plucking the top off a bottle of brandy and pouring two small glasses. He returned to her, offering the second glass. She took it.

“You will have to be celibate.”

She huffed into her brandy at this, almost choking. She was laughing. “You want a household whore that doesn’t -”

“I want you. I want this precious creature to be content and cared for. As I said, the more content you are, the better for me.”

“So what? I never get boffed again? And you’ll pay me for that?”

“Outside ritual you will refrain from getting ‘boffed,’” he said, unable to still his laughter at saying the word.

“So you’re offering me all of this if I just promise not to let anyone diddle me -”

“You’ve such a way with words, my dear.”

“For how long? A month?”

“Perhaps longer.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “But my things? I can’t very well just up and leave it all -”

“No, of course not. You may ride into town any time to collect your effects if you so choose. Or I can send Gregory to collect them if you would prefer. My carriage is at your disposal.”

Her mind was reeling. The thought of sleeping in this bed, of waking to the sounds of that garden rather than the ruckus of whores and hungover dock workers – it all seemed for too good to be true. Yet, the greatest allure of this arrangement stood just inches before her, sipping at his glass of brandy.

“What if being celibate doesn’t make me content?”

She reached for him then, the brandy already warm in her belly. She tugged at one of the belt loops in his trousers, pulling him closer. He closed his eyes, still sipping his brandy. He let her pull him closer before setting his glass of brandy on the windowsill.

She pressed the tip of her nose to his jaw. “I wasn’t celibate tonight.”

He leaned over her, his lips coming close to hers. His body hummed in her arms, like some electric thing. She pulled him against her, clutching his backside.

He didn’t protest. “No, you certainly were not.”

Constance lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him. He opened his mouth, letting her taste the brandy on his lips and tongue. He took her face in his hands, kissing her as she tugged at his belt, walking him toward the bed. She let herself fall back onto it and to her utter delight, Alisdair lowered himself down onto her.

He took her mouth like some ravenous thing, his breath broken and ragged. She ran her nails down his back, feeling the smooth skin of him under his shirt. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it up from his trousers so she could feel the warmth of his skin under her fingertips. She grazed her nails across him, sure she would leave marks. He groaned into her mouth. He was moving over her, grinding her into the bed with his hips, letting her feel him move between her legs. The flimsy robe slipped aside, leaving her bare legs free to wrap around him. She gripped his belt and pulled him, pressing her hips up to meet him. This rhythm, the feel of his warmth and weight over her instantly reminded her of the ritual, of the illusion of him penetrating her, thrusting into her. She wanted to know that sensation without illusion. She wanted him completely. She moved her hand around to the front of his trousers, slipping her hand under the waistband to take hold of him beneath. He was hard and ready, pulsing in her fingers. She moaned to feel it.

He jerked at the touch, almost whimpering as he suddenly pulled away, rising to his full height. He was across the room in two strides, tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

“Alisdair, let me please you.”

He ran his hands through his hair, groaning. “My God, Constance, don’t talk like that. It’s hard enough just being near you.”

“Why won’t you let me?”

He crossed to the window, snatching up his glass of brandy and slugging it down in one go. “I can’t. And if you agree to this arrangement, neither can you.”

“What does that mean?”

He gestured toward her with the empty glass before rushing to the mantle for a second pour. “You may not achieve release.”

“Well, if I haven’t a willing partner -”

“Even by yourself.”

Constance stopped and watched him. He was wound tight now, an excited ball of nerves. She ached to soothe him, feel him succumb in her arms, a shuddering satisfied mess, and then settle into the bed beside her like rain through cobblestones.

“How long has it been, Ali?”

He seemed to perk at that name, shooting her a glare, then smiling as he tugged at the front of his trousers, repositioning himself. “Over a year.”

Constance took a deep breath. “M’Lord, let me give this to you. I need to give this to you. A man isn’t built for this kind of denial. You’re not a monk.”

“Ah, but I am. Just of a different kind of church.”

They both sat there in silence a moment. He drank his second brandy down and set the glass on the table beside the pictures of his parents.

“Will you ever be able to?”

He exhaled. “Hopefully, yes. After I get it right.”

“Get what right?”

“The ritual.”

Constance slumped back onto the pillows. She could feel the strange buzzing behind her eyes, feel it trickle into the tips of her fingers. She watched him there, still thrumming with energy even in silence. “I thought it worked, tonight.”

He turned to her then, shooting her a toothy grin. “It did. God, watching those uptight bastards run was one of the most satisfying moments of my life.”

Constance smiled. “If it worked, then why deny yourself?”

He chuckled, crossing the room to her. “Because I can already feel it fading. When I get it right, it will be permanent.”

She ran her toes against his elbow and he grabbed her foot, squeezing it in his hands before kissing the tip of her big toe. “I’m close. I know I am.”

“Are you hoping a month of lavishing me with food until I’m plump and keeping me frustrated will be the final straw, then?”

He smiled. “I am.”

“It’s torture, this. Inhumane.”

He leaned over her again, pressing his lips to hers. “Believe me, Constance – I know.”

She reached for him, again relishing in the feel of his smooth skin beneath his shirt, but he pulled from her touch, turning back for the door of the bedroom. “I’ll bid you goodnight then.”

She sat up in bed, watching him go. “Alisdair?”

He stopped in the doorway, turning to meet her gaze. “Yes, Constance.”

“Will you teach me?”

Alisdair smiled, and even in the dark she could see the joy on his face. “I would love to.”

They sat in silence a moment, watching each other. Finally, Alisdair turned for the parlor. “You will join me for breakfast then, yes?”

Before she could answer, he slipped out of the bedroom and was gone. She watched after him, hearing the distant sound of her parlor door being shut, then his footsteps retreating down the hall. Constance sighed, settling into the mound of pillows beneath her, a mountain of brocade and silk. She stared at the open bedroom door a moment. Then with the constant burning still just under her fingertips, she lifted her hand to point at the door and flicked her fingers.