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  Bridge shoved his fingers inside her to dampen them, then slid the tip of his pinkie into the opening of her anus. She gasped in shock, felt the slight stretching to accommodate him, then moaned aloud as he withdrew and reinserted that single digit in slow, deliberate penetration.

  Desperately she moved with him, rubbed her breasts and her streaming mons against the slightly abrasive coverlet, but her movement only intensified the impact of his motions and increased her frustration.

  Bridge leaned over her, still fully dressed, and spoke directly in her ear. “You like that?” “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s different. Strange.”

  “You’re so tight. So beautiful. So virginal. I want to fuck you there.”

  She froze. “I can’t. You’re too big. It’ll hurt.”

  “I’d never hurt you.”

  She heard him tear off his clothing. Then felt his immense, throbbing cock against her derriere. Instead of attempting to penetrate her, she felt him tonguing her, kissing her, loving her. While she was still trying to absorb the kaleidoscopic impact of his attentions, he tugged her backward, lifted her hips, and drove himself into her vagina.

  She groaned aloud at the fabulous relief of his cock filling her, deeper than ever before in this new position. His balls slapped her clit as he fucked her fast and furiously. She matched her movements to his, tried to tightened her vagina walls around him, to squeeze him in her depths, but she was so wet she couldn’t hold him as he pounded in and out of her, with an intensity so amazing that she nearly forgot to breathe. She reached back and fondled his testicles with one hand, her other hand gliding down to rub the wet slickness of her clitoris. As release flooded through her she screamed, muffling the sound against the bedcover, then screamed again as Bridge dipped his pinkie back inside her anus, deepening the rush of her orgasm.

  When he finally came, his entire body shuddered and shuddered again. She felt his muscles convulse against her as she sank exhausted and boneless, deeper into the softness of the mattress.

  Chapter 8

  Bridge collapsed atop her, clearly as spent as she was. She could feel his body give the occasional shudder, almost like an aftershock. His arms cradled her in a pleasant way, strangely contrasting with the wild panting of his breath. Or was that hers? She held her breath for a minute, then let it out more slowly. Both of them, she decided. Still cradling her close, Bridge rolled off of her and pulled her with him. They lay there nested like two spoons in a drawer.

  Bridge’s breathing slowed and softened into a regular pattern and she was afraid he might have fallen asleep. That would never do! What if she fell asleep alongside him? What if someone came upon them together?

  “Bridge.” She gave him a prod with her elbow. “Bridge, are you asleep?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “You have to go. Quietly, so as not to wake Eloise.”

  She felt the low rumble of his laughter stir her hair. “She’ll sleep through anything. That’s why I got her well and truly pickled.”

  Fallon rolled from his embrace and turned to face him, mere inches away. “You didn’t... do it the way you said you would.”

  “No.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “You’re not ready. Besides, you trusted me. That in itself was more than enough.”

  Fallon fell silent, pondering Bridge’s words. Had he indeed earned her trust? What made him so certain?

  And did Bridge trust her? Did he even feel a need to?

  The very fact that she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question was an ominous sign, she thought. Fighting off panic, she rolled as far as she was able to her side of the bed, her back toward Bridge.

  Surely he’d get the hint. Surely he’d get up and leave.

  “This is not how it’s done, you know,” he said in normal, conversational tones. “From physical closeness, you’re supposed to move into talking and sharing.”

  “Not if we don’t want to,” she said stiffly.

  “Very well, then. I’ll go first.”

  “Leave, you mean?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, share a little bit of me. Something you can capture in your rendering of me.”

  “I have more than enough already, thank you. Enough for an entire series.”

  “You’re afraid of getting close, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Remember, we pledged honesty between us.”

  “Damn you,” Fallon said. “Yes, we did. But I don’t believe afraid is the right word. I’m uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation.”

  “I hear fear,” he said, rolling onto his back and pillowing his arms comfortably behind his head.

  “How would you recognize fear? I’ll wager you’ve never been afraid.”

  “That’s one wager you’re doomed to lose. I smelled, tasted, and lived with fear every day I was in the war.”

  “Were you afraid of dying?”

  “No. I was afraid my mates’ deaths were for naught. And I swore that when I came back, if I came back, I’d never take anything seriously again.”

  “Hence your frivolous approach to life,” Fallon said.

  “Exactly. Now, your turn. Why are you so fearful of getting close?”

  She was silent for a while. “Every time I allow myself to get close to someone, I lose them,” she said finally. “I already know you’ll be on your way, hence I won’t allow myself to get close to you and experience that loss again.”

  “Makes sense,” Bridge said. “Our actions are typically a reaction to something which has gone before.”

  She felt movement as he rose from the bed.

  “And I do understand, Fallon. You’re done with me for the present, thus I’m banished to my lonely outbuilding.” His words were followed by the rustle of clothing as he dressed.

  “We both need our rest,” she murmured. “The portrait is nearly complete, and I don’t wish to lose momentum at this stage.”

  “God, no. Don’t dare lose momentum.” She felt the mattress shift as he leaned over and pressed a kiss on her unresponsive shoulder.

  “Good night, my dear. Sleep well.”

  “And you.”

  Bridge made his way silently down the back stairs, out the kitchen door, and across the lawn to Fallon’s studio, pausing to gaze up at the nearly full moon. He was quite accustomed to women and their ways, but Fallon’s behavior tonight was a puzzler of the finest order. Who would guess that his attempts to share would turn her from a firebrand to an ice shard faster than he could say Montague Bridgeman aloud?

  She had obviously lost more than one person who was near and dear. Her body bore signs of having given birth, yet no youngster was in evidence. As for him, surely he was a bigger fraud than his hostess, for didn’t he use physical intimacy as a means of getting close while still maintaining his distance? Perhaps it was time he and Fallon both took a risk.

  He took a deep breath of the rose-scented night air, then smiled to himself. Didn’t those rose petals just leave him with quite the idea?

  The next morning, Fallon was surprised to find that the Captain Mum had beaten her to the breakfast table, looking none the worse for her overindulgence the night before.

  “I trust Mrs. Buttle has seen to your needs,” Fallon said, knowing she sounded as stiff and stilted as she looked.

  “Lord, Fallon, that frock is a sight. It ought to be burned.”

  “What’s wrong with it? It’s part of my mourning attire.”

  “The Captain would never sanction you going about in a death shroud, my dear. I was hoping, from what I witnessed last night, that you’d moved forward in your grief.”

  Fallon couldn’t control the flush that rose to her cheeks. What had she witnessed? Surely not Bridge’s antics during their meal. Mercy, surely she hadn’t been awakened by the sounds of their rutting! Fallon knew she had been exceptionally uncontrolled.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You’ve taken o
n a commission; instilled some life back into this household and your days. And your subject is a most interesting young man. He allowed himself to be the main prize in an auction I arranged.”

  Fallon choked on her tea. “Really? What manner of auction?”

  “My auxiliary is attempting to purchase new books for the library. We want all young people, most particularly young women, to have access to reading materials. To be kept abreast of changes afoot, like that Victoria Woodruff and her movement for free love.”

  Fallon’s eyes widened. “You support Mrs. Woodruff?”

  “Most certainly. And I didn’t wish to embarrass your guest last night by thanking him for his contribution to our successful venture. He fetched a healthy sum, by the way, from your friend Mrs. Tremblay. I bid against her for a while, simply to drive the bidding as high as possible. Please keep that to yourself.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m quite certain she’ll tell you all about it, once you pry yourself away from this self-imposed exile.” Her mother-in-law delicately blotted her lips with her napkin and rose. “I must be on my way. You know, I had an ulterior motive for stopping in last night. I had fully intended to insist you join me on the Cape, but I’m relieved to know that my intervention is not required. And that you’re making your own amusement.”

  Fallon rose as well and pressed a kiss to the old woman’s cheek. “I’ve always felt lucky to have you for a mother-in-law. You’ve been like a mother to me in many ways over the years.”

  “I know, my dear. And I was glad to do so, since you lost your own mother. Watch yourself with young Bridgeman. He acts the wastrel as if born to the role, but he fought in the war. And though he returned unscarred on the outside, I suspect inside of him is a very different matter.”

  Fallon seemed subdued and pensive when she arrived at the studio, a manservant with a breakfast tray following closely. She was wearing a shapeless black gown that bleached all the color from her face and made her resemble a crow.

  Bridge wondered if her intent was to render herself as unattractive as possible, thus avoiding any further attempts at intimacy on his part. If so, it was a foiled attempt. For he knew what luscious curves and creases and juicy orifices simmered just below the surface of the ugly frock. It would take far more than a stiff, shapeless dress for Fallon to make herself unappealing. As a matter of fact, it had quite the opposite effect: he couldn’t wait to divest her of the hideous garment.

  Her manservant placed the tray upon the table, lifted the silver dome from an impressive plate of eggs, pancakes, sweet-breads, sausage, and steak, then disappeared, leaving them alone.

  “You’re not joining me.” Bridge felt obliged to state the obvious.

  “No, I’ve eaten already.” She reached for her voluminous smock. “I’ll just ready my things. We can proceed at your leisure.”

  “Typically, you’re very impatient to begin.”

  Fallon forced what sounded like a hollow laugh. “It’s silly, really. I always feel obliged to start with an abrupt, almost frantic plunge, just to ensure I still have the knack.” As she spoke she busied herself mixing daubs of paints on her palette, alternately frowning her displeasure or smiling her delight. The room was so still, the silence between them so intense, that Bridge was certain he could hear the swish of the bristles against the palette, giving rise to another source of inspiration. He took a thoughtful bite of his breakfast.

  “From viewing your other works, I’d say you have far more than a knack.”

  “At any rate, as I approach the beginning of the end, I tend to slow right down, almost reluctant to bring the project to a close. It’s difficult to let go, I suppose. To say nothing of having to face the daunting task of starting something new—staring at that pristine white canvas, seeking inspiration.”

  Bridge wondered if that was the point at which she had found herself when he’d entered the picture. “That must play havoc on your models.”

  “Up until now my models have all been inanimate, with no voice to complain about the unreasonable hours they must serve.”

  “Still, you always have time constraints, have you not? The drooping head of a flower suddenly loses all its petals. The perfectly-ripened piece of fruit begins to decay.”

  “Are you threatening to go to seed on me?”

  “Only if you proceed to be unreasonable.” He finished his meal and pushed himself to his feet. “A quick trip to the privy and I’m at your disposal.”

  Fallon nodded distractedly, her attention riveted on the canvas on her easel. Bridge hoped she didn’t find the likeness of more interest than the flesh-and-blood version. As a matter of fact, he’d see to it.

  The door closed behind Bridge and Fallon let out a pent-up breath as she stared at her unsteady hands. The portrait was nearing completion. Soon her life would return to normal, normal being dull and quiet and stodgy there in the country. But safe. Hadn’t safety always been the thing she held most dear? If it was excitement she craved, she needed only to relocate to her townhouse. But would she find living in the city any more appealing? In truth, a future without Bridge held very little appeal at all, no matter where she called home.

  She knew Bridge must be puzzled by her sudden coolness, but she felt her only option was to remain aloof and unattached, not to let him know just how instrumental he’d been in bringing her back to life. Back to herself. If he was in anyway privy to that knowledge, then he would be privy to other things, as well. Like the fact that her trust was the least of her gifts to him. And the fact that her heart, her love, he also possessed. These were things he must never know.

  She started at the sound of Bridge pointedly clearing his throat. How had he done that—crept so quietly into the room, disrobed, and posed without her noticing? How had her thoughts carried her so far away?

  “Perfect,” she said in forced cool tones. “You have a good memory for your pose.” What she really meant was that he was perfect. Perfect masculine beauty. Perfect inspiration. Far more than the perfect lover. Her hands flew as if guided by angels. Never had her work seemed so effortless, the results so breathtakingly flawless, as if powers beyond hers guided her every move.

  As if the love she felt for Bridge poured from the tip of her brush, spilled out onto the canvas, and took on a life and power all its own. Passion and inspiration rushed through her veins, rendering her capable of much more than she had ever dreamed.

  Painting Bridge and loving Bridge. The two acts blurred and became one, with a result she found humbling. She’d been granted two momentous gifts: the ability to paint like never before, and the ability to love like never before.

  When she finally laid down her palette and brush, she realized her fingers were cramped, her body totally drained, her limbs so weak that they were no longer able to support her.

  Somehow, Bridge knew. For without a word or even an exchange of looks, he was there at her side, catching her as she swayed backward. Lowering her to a chair.

  “You’re all done,” he said.

  She nodded, unable to muster the strength to speak.

  “May I see?”

  She managed to nod one more time, then held her breath as he turned toward the portrait. He stood rigidly, simply looking.

  She held her breath, longing for yet fearing his reaction.

  Fallon felt as if the world stood still, the tides, the moon, the stars, the rotation of the planet. That clocks no longer ticked and sand lay still in the hourglass. It was the longest, most drawn out few moments of her existence. It could have been seconds or hours, she had no way to judge.

  Finally Bridge turned to her.

  She caught her breath.

  He knows! How could he possibly not?

  She felt as if the love that flowed from her to him, the inspiration she received as a reward for that love, was pathetically obvious. She couldn’t meet his gaze! Couldn’t face what was bound to be his pity. Instead, she looked away.

  Bridge knelt down beside her, grasped
her chin between his finger and thumb, and forced her gaze to meet his.

  “I am rendered speechless,” he said. “It is truly magnificent. I am honored to have been your simple subject.”

  She found it impossible to speak past the lump of emotion caught in her throat. At any rate, words seemed totally unnecessary.

  “And now,” Bridge said, “you must allow me to paint you.”

  She found her voice then. “Bridge, you don’t paint. Do you?”

  “Indulge me,” he said, the husky timbre of his voice feathering the sensitive nerve endings on the back of her neck and making it impossible for her to refuse him anything. He took her hand, drew her to her feet, and guided her to the velvet-and-satin-draped settee where he had posed tirelessly for so many hours. From behind it, he pulled out a bulky burlap sack. When he upended the sack, the air was awash with the scent of roses. Thousands of rose petals floated through the air and added their texture to the puddle of satin and velvet.

  Fallon could only stare transfixed as they landed. Every rainbow hue of red and orange and pink and yellow and mauve and white, some bruised, others flawless. The end result mimicked the soft, still sweetness of a painting by Monet.

  She crushed a few petals between her fingers, inhaling their dewy, perfumed fragrance. Intoxicating. Was this real, or was it simply a dream?

  It certainly felt real. As real as Bridge’s fingers against her nape, unfastening the buttons of her gown, tugging it down her shoulders, her hips, and urging her to step forward, free of its confines. He continued to divest her of her garments, layers of petticoats, stockings, and more intimate apparel, until she found herself lying naked, sunlight spilling through the window and warming her skin. As she luxuriated in the rose petals’ softness; their scent surrounded her, enfolded her, intoxicated her.

  This must be what heaven is like, Fallon thought, floating on a cloud among the angels, transported to an unnamed state of total bliss.

  Was this even real, here in her studio with Bridge? Perhaps she had imagined the entire incident, beginning with Aurora’s visit. Perhaps she had simply painted the beautiful young man of her heart and wished him come to life. Perhaps ...