That night they sat before the fire, Skye in her simple white caftan and Geoffrey in a green velvet robe. They roasted chestnuts in the coals of their fire, picking the sweet, hot meats from the shells, burning their fingers in the process. He found a lute in the common room of the inn and brought it back to their little room. To her surprise he played and sang quite well. He sang her several naughty ditties that left her weak with laughter, and when he saw that she was helpless he put the lute down and pounced on her. Giggling, she fought him off, tickling him mercilessly until he too was helpless with mirth.
They lay panting upon the bed, and then suddenly he was kissing her frantically. “Skye! Skye! Dammit, woman, love me a little!”
“But Geoffrey,” she protested, “I do!”
“No, sweetheart, you love what I do to your passions but you feel nothing for me. You’re so fair, so charming, so intelligent! I thought it was enough, but itisn’tenough. I want you to care as I care.”
“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 wasthe “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 satisfying 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, “pleasenot like this.”
Her tears stopped him and he suddenly stepped away. She crumbled toward the floor and he caught her and carried her to thebed, 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.
