Part 32 (1/2)
”Igrainia.”
A name. And in that name, she heard a longing and poignancy that had outlasted the ages, the joy of what they had shared, what they had lost.
She couldn't have turned away then even if he had aimed a stake straight at her heart. He cupped her chin in his hands, his fingers moving with an infinite tenderness over her cheeks. She didn't even realize she had moved, but she was suddenly pressed against him. He bent slowly, and his lips moved over hers. It was a full, slow kiss, lips parting, the fire of the ages evoked in the play of their tongues. Pa.s.sion, simmering, slow but explosive, awoke. She reached up, her fingers winding through his hair, and they kissed with a growing madness. She never knew how clothing found its way to the floor. It seemed the kiss never broke, but it didn't matter, because they were naked in each other's arms. Nothing, nothing at all seemed to matter, except the heat that infused their flesh, melded them together so they could sate the frenzied hunger that seized them both.
When their lips at last parted, she kissed his throat, feeling the pulse there, then his collarbone, the rippling expanse of his chest.
His fingers stroked her hair as she moved against him, remembering, discovering, showering him with liquid caresses. She moved ever lower, reveling in the feel of hard muscle and sleek skin, noting a scar here, there....
It was as if time washed away. She felt a Highland wind as surely as if it touched her in truth. She drew her fingers around his hip, over his b.u.t.tocks, and it was as if the colors of a distant valley lived with her again in springtime. She felt the roar of a storm, the cras.h.i.+ng of the waves against the cliff, the hunger of innocence, trust...love....
She stroked and caressed with fingers, lips and tongue. She teased mercilessly, those distant memories rising in her with the shuddering of his flesh, each tensing of his fingers as they brushed her hair and shoulders. She took him in her hands, in her mouth; she felt him tremble, and then she was in his arms, lifted and carried, then lying on the cool sheets, but in her mind and heart she might have lain in an age-old field of mauve and green. Where she had teased lightly at first, she was met now with urgency and raw desire, his hands and mouth moving over her as if everything that had come before was but a prelude for this.
He had always been a magnificent lover.And so he proved again, mouth upon hers, upon her body, raggedly teasing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her belly, between her thighs. Then he was atop her, within her, and the world beyond them was a storm, the sky blue and thunderous gray, the sheets a poignantly remembered wool, cast upon the rugged ground, and theirs was the pa.s.sion of youth, of a love that had grown, flown and entwined them forever....
In life, in death.
Yet this was the now, and what he did to her was raw and carnal and explosive. The sheets beneath her were real, the sun high, and he was flesh and thunder within her. When sensation reached the point of eruption, she felt a climax shake her as if she had died again, this time in a rapture and sheer physical ecstasy that was staggering. She clung to him, amazed at the joy that continued to grip her so sweetly as she seemed to drift on silver clouds, down to earth, down to the bed, the sheets, the room in the house on Bourbon Street.
And to him, beside her, there on the bed. Holding her.
And then...the pain. Oh, G.o.d, the pain. Tears that stung her eyes. Tears she could not shed.
She spoke softly. ”Perhaps, if you're going to do it, you should do it now.”
”What?” he rose above her, puzzled.
”I am a vampyr. And you are a warrior.”
He stared down at her for a long time. ”Sometimes,” he said at last, a rueful smile curving his lips, ”we have to go on faith, to believe that which we cannot see, hmm?”
He eased back beside her, pulling her against him. She lay still, thinking that if he were to kill her now, it wouldn't matter.
She would happily die in his arms.
She felt his kiss brush her head, felt his fingers stroke through her hair.
”If only...” he murmured.
”If only...?”
”We could stay like this forever.”
They couldn't. They both knew it.
She started to speak, but he pressed his fingers to her lips, drawing her closer still. ”We have to rest.”
She nodded. She didn't dare move.
She had thought him dead and herself alone. She had fended for herself, made herself strong, and she had learned that she could face any danger.
But now he was here. Alive.
Her greatest threat?
But his arms were around her now, and she felt, as she hadn't since they had last lain so, that she was cherished, protected, that...
he would die for her?He already had.
But tonight...
Whatever the future brought, she intended to savor the sensation, the belief, that she was loved, cherished.
She lay secure in his arms, desperately tired. And finally she slept.
No dreams plagued her, only his whisper as he moved against her.
”Igrainia.”
17.
B obby Munro entered Sean's office. ”We've tracked down the owners.h.i.+p of the plantation up the river,” he told Sean.
”Yeah?”
Bobby shook his head. ”No help. It's owned by the parish.”
”Then someone knew it would be empty.”
Bobby shrugged. ”Sean, anyone could have known it would be empty. It's public record.”
”Start with local bars, see who could have supplied the place.”
”This is New Orleans, for G.o.d's sake. That's like looking for a needle in a haystack.” Bobby cleared his throat. ”And we're under a h.e.l.l of a lot of pressure. Missing corpse. Two cops brutally killed. The press is breathing down our necks.”
”And you know what to tell the press.”
”No comment,” Bobby said with a sigh.
”That's it.”
”But, Lieutenant, we...”
”Yes?”