“Oh, Geoffrey!” There was genuine regret in her voice. “I don’t know if I shall ever love again. It hurts so damned much to love. I like you, and I had thought we would be friends. It’s more than most men have with their mistresses.”
“You’re not just any woman, my love! I want more of you, Skye, than most men have of their mistresses.”
“You have no right!” she shouted at him. “You do not take me, I give myself freely! Because I want to, and only because I do want to.” She was kneeling on the bed, her hair swirling about her sleek, beautiful shoulders. “I will be no man’s toy! Understand that, my lord Earl.”
Her sapphire eyes flashed blue fire, her creamy skin was rosy with emotion. At that moment she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Still, he was furious at her. He was Geoffrey Reginald Michael Arthur Henry Southwood, the seventh Earl of Lynmouth, and she was only a nameless woman without a past. He was the ”Angel Earl,” the man for whom all women pined. She was the first to have the gift of his true love. And he would have hers!
His voice was dangerously low and tinged with scorn. “I’ll not beg you, Skye. But if you cannot learn to love again and yet you still give your body, then you’re no better than a common whore.”
She went white with shock, her eyes huge. Lashing out, she hit a blow to his cheek which left the red imprint of her fingers. Instantly he struck back, matching her blow. Then flinging himself on her, he pinned her beneath him.
“Your husband is dead! Can’t you understand?”
Struggling wildly, she screamed at him. “Don’t speak of him! Don’t you dare to speak of him! He was kind and wise and good, and I loved him! Do you hear? I loved him! I loved him as I shall never love anyone else!”
“Instead,” he raged at her, “you’ll make a mockery of his love by behaving like a whore! You’ll lock your heart away while sat- isfying the lusts of your body. Very well, sweetheart, if you wish to be a whore I’ll show you how!”
His hands went to the neck of her caftan and with several quick motions he tore the silk garment from her easily. He squeezed her breasts, his knee jammed brutally between her thighs.
“No! Geoffrey!”
His lime-green eyes glittered in the firelight, and he bent to capture, her mouth. She turned her head aside quickly and he lost his balance. He fell into the pillows. She scrambled from beneath him, her feet finding the floor. She fled across the room. But reaching the door, she realized the hopelessness of her situation. She was stark naked, and could hardly escape.
She faced him as he lazily stalked her across the room. “Geoffrey, please.” She held out her hands in supplication. His eyes were pitiless as his body pressed hard into hers. She felt the wall behind her.
“Whores,” he said tonelessly, “are often taken in alleys, standing up, their backs to the wall.” Forcing her thighs open, he ordered, ”Put your arms about me, whore! Wrap your legs about my waist and see how the other members of your sisterhood behave!”
She fought him wildly now, trying to twist her body away from him, struggling, clawing at his eyes. He slapped her and she burst into tears, tears of shame, tears of fright. “Please,” she whimpered, ”please not like this.”
Her tears stopped him and he suddenly stepped away. She crum- bled toward the floor and he caught her and carried her to the bed, cradling her against his chest as he sat down. “Damn you, Skye! Damn you for the heartless, blue-eyed bitch you are. I only want you to love me.”
“It hurts to love,” she sobbed, “I don’t want to be hurt again.”
“Sweetheart, living hurts, and loving is part of living, as is death.” His anger had disappeared in the face of her obvious pain. “Skye, my darling, love me as I love you.”
She began to cry harder. She wept for the woman she could not remember, for Khalid el Bey, that tender and noble man. She was so very tired.
“Love me, my darling,” he whispered tenderly. “Let your heart soften again. Oh Skye, I would set you above all women, even my wife. Love me, sweetheart!”
She had built a wall about her heart and now she felt that wall being breached, piece by piece.
“You’re no wanton, to lie with me simply for pleasure. You do feel, though you won’t admit it. Don’t you, my darling?”
She looked up at him, her eyes streaming. “Yes,” she whispered, so low that he had to bend to hear her.
“You will not betray the love you felt for your husband if you love me, Skye. That you can-and must-love again is a tribute to the love you shared with your husband. Now share your love with me, my darling.”
There was a long silence. At last he heard her say softly, “Yes, Geoffrey.”
With infinite care he lay her upon their bed and gently kissed the tears on her cheeks, moving down her throat, her chest, her exquisite breasts. He worshiped at the shrine of their perfection, nursing on each nipple. Protectively she enfolded him in her embrace, cradling him, and, exhausted, they fell asleep.
In the gray-white light of the January dawn she awoke to find that he had thrust gently into her. The hardness within her seemed natural and good. “I do love you,” she said quietly, and slowly he began the primitive rhythm that would culminate in searing passion for them both. She moved with him, savoring the sweetness of him, and suddenly she knew that all the barriers had crumbled away. She loved this tender and arrogant lord who sought to possess her so completely. She loved him. He would never know, of course, for men never did, that though she loved him there would always be a secret part of her that belonged to her alone. But she loved him, of that she was sure.
Their rhythm quickened and then the blazing white light of the dawn blended with the pulsing golden light in her mind as he brought her twice to perfect fulfillment. She cried his name and felt his strong arms about her, heard his voice soothing her, his lips kissing away the salty tears she hadn’t even been aware of shedding.
“You are mine, and I am yours,” she said finally, easily.
“Aye, sweetheart,” he answered. “We belong together, and we will be together. In the spring I shall beg leave from the Queen and take you down into Devon to my home.”
“But your wife-“
“Mary and her daughters do not live at Lynmouth,” he said. “It is you who shall be its mistress.”
That afternoon they left their secret sanctuary at the Ducks and Drake and rode back to London. The day was cold and windy and overcast, and threatened snow again, but they were happy. - “I want you to move into my house,” he said as they rode. “The apartment next to mine is for the Countess of Lynmouth, and we will redo it for you.”
“I don’t know, Geoffrey. I have my own home, and I plan to bring my daughter up from Devon soon. I haven’t seen her in several months. She should be in her own house, not in yours.”
“Then keep Greenwood, darling, but let me redo those rooms for you. You can travel easily between the two houses using the un- derground passage beneath the garden. You can be with your little girl during the day, and with me in the evenings.”
“Very well, Geoffrey, as long as I may keep my own home. But until the rooms are redone I will remain at Greenwood. Will you dine with me this evening?”
“I will, sweetheart, but first I must return to Court and pay my respects to Her Majesty.”
Soon they turned their horses into Greenwood’s driveway.
“Welcome home, ma’am,” called the gatekeeper.
Skye threw him a smile and waved. Approaching the house, Skye was pleased to see a groom hurry from her stables. As they reined in their horses the Earl dismounted and lifted her down from her horse. His arms remained wrapped around her and, flushing prettily, she looked up at him.