The Booklover’s Absolutely Amorous Affair (The Notorious Briarwoods #9)

Chapter 9

N imue slipped over the field and spotted the cottage.

In the growing evening light, the sky was a purple hue. It was one of her favorite times of day, that magical in-between, in which it was not purely daytime or purely nighttime, and it felt as if anything was possible. These were the moments when she believed in the possibility of magic, the sort of magic that her father had made her love as a child when reading her tales of King Arthur, his knights, his round table, and all of the wonders of a land that likely had not existed.

She stopped for a moment and lingered in the cool air. The windows of the cottage glowed a delicate amber. He was already there. She felt her heart begin to skip, dancing a tune older than the tales of King Arthur, older than the myths that had inspired them. She swallowed and then folded her hands before her. She forced herself to slow, to still, to note the significance of this.

If she continued to walk forward, her life would take a new way, a way of knowing, understanding, sensuality, promise. She would know him, Jean-Luc, in a way that she’d never known any human being before or would ever know again.

The thought sent a tingle of wonder through her and then she boldly charged forward. There was no hesitation. There was no doubt. There was no reason to question her decision. Her feet moved over the dewy grass and she came up to the cottage door.

She grabbed the latch and turned it slowly. The scent of wood filled the air, and she felt her own lips turning in a smile as she slipped in and shut the door behind her. She could hear the crackle of the fire filling up the room and saw that he worked away while standing at a table by the mantel, but that was not what astonished her.

She looked about the cottage and could not suppress a gasp.

He had clearly been here for some time. It had been transformed from a damp, slightly neglected place into a warm, beautiful haven.

Her eyes immediately went to the bed in the corner. A bed they would soon share and upon which he would educate her. It sent the most shocking and delicious of aches through her limbs that then pooled in her lower belly.

The bed had been made with fresh blankets. Soon, they would be under them. Together.

Somehow, she pulled her gaze from the bed and explored the rest of the space.

The small table had been set with a cloth and flowers, no doubt from the hothouse at the Duke of Westleigh’s estate. Plates of food had been placed upon it, beautifully arranged to please the eye. She spotted pears, apples, oranges, bread, butter, and cake.

All of this had no doubt been transported in the wicker hamper tucked into the corner of the room.

On the floor before the fire were several covered cushions arranged like a nest.

Jean-Luc had turned his attention to the fireplace, stirring something in a pot over the flames.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked as she slipped her bonnet from her head and tugged her gloves off.

He turned slightly. “Tending to my brew,” he teased. “Making potions to seduce you with.”

She laughed, even as the word seduce sent a shiver of anticipation through her veins. “I cannot imagine you as a witch.”

“Why not? Witches can be men,” he replied in that rich accent of his that was as good as a caress. “Did you not know the greatest sorcerers and alchemists have been men? Ah,” he paused, “but of course you know, you are a devotee of Merlin.”

She gave a quick curtsy to acknowledge his astute point. “Merlin could be quite a challenging, silly old man. But yes, the story and all that magic fills me with delight.”

His eyes turned strangely melancholic. “I do not know,” he confessed. “It is a rather sad story in the end.”

“Aren’t most stories sad stories in the end?” she asked.

He cocked his head to the side, mystified. “And yet you are so joyful about life.”

She knew she shouldn’t let herself swoon over his voice and accent, but they really were delicious. His whole attitude, which was so very different than what she’d grown up with, made her feel liquid and full of hunger.

“Why should I be anything but?” she asked, even as her body felt more and more aware in this little cottage with him. “The nature of life is to end in sorrow because we all have to die. Everything dies. But death is also the start of a story. My death will bring life.”

He grimaced. “Please do not discuss your death.”

She frowned. She was surprised by the vehemence of his declaration. “I won’t if it upsets you.”

He looked away, but there was a tension in his beautiful broad shoulders as he stirred whatever was in the pot. “Forgive me, ma chérie,” he murmured. “Death and I are too well acquainted.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes. I see. I only meant that everything has its counterpoint. One knows that growing up on a farm,” she said.

He turned back to her and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She laughed, relieved that his tension was dissipating. “Perhaps everyone should grow up on a farm. They’d be far happier, I think. You see it all. You see birth and death and sickness and health. You see the cycle of everything. You see wheat grow, born from seedlings that give their crop to feed us and animals. Then the wheat dies and withers and goes back into the earth and feeds the earth, which then feeds the worms, and the worms feed the birds and…”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “It is a miraculous lesson in science. The great scientists—”

“Do not overcomplicate it,” she rushed. “It is a miraculous lesson in life.”

“Science is perhaps life?” he ventured.

“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But no more so than poetry and books. It is all there. The poetry of life, the magic of it, and the beauty, the sorrow, the delight.”

“I do not know how to think as you do or as my cousins do,” he said. “Perhaps I have been stunted.”

“You?” she gasped, taking another step into the room, hardly knowing what to make of his comment. “Stunted? How?”

He kept silent, and she knew he was thinking of his family and friends in France. She did not want to mar their time together, but she also did not want to push aside his pain. “Do you wish to speak of it?” she asked.

He gave a tight shake of his head. “No, I do not wish to speak of it. Speaking of it does not help. I’ve tried. It only makes it worse.”

She considered this. She supposed she understood. If one was sad, speaking only of sad things, well, would that not increase the sadness? So, she took another step forward, longing to go to him but not quite having the courage yet. She felt as if she was entering a hot bath, easing in by degrees. “What is it then that we can do that might fill you with delight just now?”

His lips turned into that spine-tingling smile of his. “Read.”

“Read?” she exclaimed. “Books? Now?”

“Don’t you know reading is the answer for everything? Aren’t you the booklover?” he asked.

“I am,” she declared, “but I thought we were going to do a different sort of—”

“Nimue,” he cut in softly. “You are a lady. A woman.”

“Beautifully observed. Well done, you,” she said, her brow furrowing as she wondered what he was on about.

His gaze grew hooded, and he licked his sensual lower lip. “Ladies need more than abruptly jumping into bed.”

“Do they?” she breathed, her breasts tightening and her body quaking with need as he mentioned the bed to her.

“Yes, we are not farm animals,” he pointed out.

She laughed. “I suppose not. You know better than I.”

“For a lady to be happy in this,” he said, indicating between them, “we must awaken all of you. We must fill you with warmth and relaxation and curiosity.”

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice shaking as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “This sounds complicated.”

“It is not complicated at all, chérie.” He gestured for her to come to him. “Now, sit here before the fire on these cushions that I have brought.”

That’s what the pillows on the floor were for! They were for her.

“I see.” But she didn’t. Not entirely. What was all this about? How was he going to relax her? There was only one way to find out.

She did as instructed and crossed over to him.

“Your cloak, mademoiselle?” he urged as he turned to her. Gently, he pulled the ribbon at her throat, then slowly removed the wool cloak from her shoulders.

It was a whispered caress, a kiss of fabric, and then he took the garment and placed it on the small table beside the fire.

“Let me help you,” he whispered, and he clasped her hand in his strong one, swallowing up her pale fingers, and helped her slowly to the floor.

Nervous now, but excited, she arranged her skirts. “Will you not join me?” she asked.

“But of course I will.” He paused, then smiled. “First, hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate?” she echoed. “I thought you would say wine.”

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head which caused his dark hair to dance against his strong face. “I do not want any of your senses dulled. I want every one of your senses alert, and hot chocolate is the perfect thing for amour.”

“Is it?” she asked, blushing. She’d always been taught to believe that wine was the sophisticated thing for lovers. “How is hot chocolate an instrument for love?”

“Perhaps I should say seduction,” he explained. “Chocolate, in all its forms, is the perfect tool,” he murmured. “It awakens the mind and the spirit. It whispers to one of decadent things and it is quite relaxing,” he said.

With that, he turned to his pot.

“Is that what you were making?” she asked, half laughing. “Hot chocolate?”

“Absolument,” he concurred.

Wordlessly, he took a ladle and served out two cups. Easily, he brought one to her and slipped it into her hands.

She let out a sigh of contentment. He was not mistaken. The warm cup in her hands did wonders, and the scent of the hot chocolate wafted to her. Suddenly, she felt herself opening up. Her tension began to dissipate.

She had not even realized that she was tense, but perhaps it was the excitement and the lack of knowledge about what they were about to do. She smiled up at him. “You are incredibly kind.”

“Why should I not be?” he asked, taking his own cup in hand.

“This is not how I’ve ever imagined a gentleman would be in such endeavors.”

His brows rose as he took a sip. Then he asked, “How did you imagine a gentleman would be?”

She cleared her throat. “All the books seemed to suggest that the gentleman would charge across the room, pull me into his arms, and…”

Her words died off and she felt her cheeks heat anew.

His lips curled into a more devilish smile, as if he was envisioning seizing her in his arms. “I can do those things too, if you like, but perhaps we shall wait for a few days before we give that a try.”

She let out another laugh, still nervous. “A few days?”

He nodded. “Of course. We shall bask in each other’s arms for as long as I am here, no?”

They were going to do this whilst he stayed on the Isle of Wight.

She was going to get to be close to him, not for a night, but for weeks, and it filled her with great joy. It shocked her, that sudden joy, but she really did like being in Jean-Luc’s company.

Perhaps it was because he was so unique. She had never met anyone like him, and she likely never would again. Or perhaps it was something else, something she didn’t quite understand, but that didn’t really matter. She wasn’t going to let herself think complex thoughts or anything that would get in the way of this particular moment.

As if he too did not wish to think too far ahead, he turned to the table, picked up a book, and sat down beside her.

“Do you know anything of French poetry?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I don’t read French, nor do I speak it, alas.”

He pursed his tempting lips. “That is difficult, but never you fear. Lay back and drink your hot chocolate.”

She did as he asked, and then he began to read in a language she did not understand. She had no idea what the words were, but it didn’t matter. His voice was like the magic he had spoken of earlier, like a whispered spell, and the hum of the consonants and the vowels washed over her.

She drank her hot chocolate slowly, the rich taste and the way it travelled through her a promise of what was to come.

She watched him read and was in awe of how he was transformed by his recitation.

He was so relaxed, and yet there was a promise to that relaxation, a hunger that was just at bay and was ready to be unleashed upon her.

A thought hit her, a thought which raced from her head to right between her thighs. This reading was but the first course, like the hot chocolate, in a banquet that was to come.