He found the heart of her womanhood. Found, with expert precision, the part of her that she most wanted touched and was most afraid to be touched. To do so would be to erase a line that could not be redrawn. But then that line had been thoroughly erased beneath an oak tree at Greystone.
She whispered his name, burning from within. She spoke his name aloud and cried out to God. She was an inferno. She screamed his name as pleasure exploded within her and her limbs turned to water.
Twenty-Four
The morning came gilded and soft, sunlight glancing off the dew-beaded lawn and spilling through the high windows of Duskwood. Christine woke with a feeling she scarcely recognized.
Peace. I feel utterly relaxed. As though nothing in the world can touch me.
Because she had been touched, and she had touched. Dreams went unremembered, but they could hardly have been more intense than reality. More wanton.
Her hair was still damp, her nightdress hidden under her bed lest the maid should wonder how it had been ripped asunder. She could still feel Tristan’s touch. Remembered the fire which had threatened to set light to water.
It feels as though the world has grown still. After a week of tumult. And I am lying in the shelter of that stillness.
The events of the night before hovered between memory and dream. The storm of his touch, the quiet after, the way he had looked at her as if openness, naked and vulnerable, had replaced calculation. She rose quietly and crossed to the window, her body still tingling.
Outside, the morning mist trailed away from the hedgerows like silk. The bath-house was out there, concealed by the trees. A haven of pleasure.
A knock came.
“Enter,” she said, tying her robe tighter.
It was her maid, Dorothy, neat as a pin and red-cheeked as an apple.
“His Grace bids me say that you should be ready within the hour, my lady. And that breakfast will be had at your destination.”
“Ready? For what?”
“His Grace did not tell me. Only that it is a surprise, Your Ladyship.”
Christine smiled, her heart already stirring with curiosity.
“Then I shall not make him wait.”
She dressed in a gown of soft blue muslin trimmed with white lace, simple but pretty. With Dorothy’s help, she pinned her hair with the pearl combs Tristan had sent up that morning. When she caught her reflection, she was startled at the sight. Her cheeks seemed to glow, and her eyes were bright.
It is as though Gillray House has finally been washed from me. I feel as though I have put aside a terrible weight.
Downstairs, she found Tristan waiting in the hall. He was in a dark riding coat, the morning light burnishing the edges of his black hair. He turned at the sound of her steps, and a slow, satisfied smile touched his mouth. But he said nothing.
Christine tilted her head. “You have words?” she asked.
“No. You look precisely as you should,” he replied.
“And that is?”
“I’ll let you decide.”
He led her to the carriage, where the horses pawed impatiently at the gravel.
“Will you not tell me where we’re going?” she asked as he handed her in.
“No.” He followed, settling opposite her, “you are far too clever. The moment I tell you, you will invent expectations, and reality will never recover.”
She laughed. “So you mean to keep me in suspense the entire journey?”
“I mean to enjoy your curiosity,” he said, “it’s a rare thing to see you unguarded.”
