Chapter Nine
“We’re not going mad, are we?” Oliver contemplated the fire through the rich colour of the liquor in his glass.
“If we are, we’re doing it together,” replied Ally, tucking her feet up on the couch in the most charmingly casual manner. “And this brandy is excellent, so if we are, as you suggest, losing our minds, then I would also add that we are retaining our discriminating taste, mad or not.”
“Good point.” He sipped again, the wonderful soft burn of the liquor warming him, almost as much as the feel of the woman next to him.
She was comfortable, leaning against his arm and shoulder, half covering him with a comfortable blanket that she’d thrown over her knees. The heat of her penetrated his sleeve, and he moved a little closer, stretching out his legs to rest on a convenient footstool.
“This is rather nice,” he observed. “Being here in the storm, just the two of us, with a roaring fire, a good brandy and absolutely no worries about anyone disturbing us.”
She thought about his statement. “Yes. Yes, it is.” She raised her glass and sipped. “Although some might find it quite shocking.”
“Thankfully, they’re not here.”
“True.”
He felt her nod in agreement, but was too comfortable to turn his head. It had been some time since he’d known such a relaxed moment, and he relished it, sighing as another gust howled around their little sanctuary.
“So we have ghosts,” he said, his mind turning over the past hours. “From my family, apparently.”
“Did you ever imagine such a thing?”
“Not in a million years,” he chuckled. “I thought I was from a long line of solid, sober, and practical people. I doubt the word ‘ghost’ ever passed any of their lips.”
“Well, our new acquaintance says she’s from at least…some sixty or seventy years ago…?”
“Perhaps the Bennetts were different back then. Who knows?”
“Life was different back then,” Ally pointed out. “The Jacobite rebellion and so on. We’ve come a long way from those days.”
“I suppose so. Now our soldiers fight in Europe, and there aren’t any battles on the streets today. Well, not too many,” he corrected himself. “Not like back then.”
“I can’t help wondering what it is that your great-grandfather wants us to find, Oliver.”
“And we probably should be looking for it,” he grinned at her. “You go first.”
She chuckled. “Not right this minute. I’m warm and comfortable. Let me enjoy that for a bit while we try and work out what we might be looking for. We’ve already done a lot of digging around, haven’t we?”
“The Blood of Amaryllis. I keep wondering what that might be. A liquid? Perhaps some sort of alcoholic drink?” He looked at his glass again. “This is excellent brandy, but I honestly wouldn’t go so far as to call it the blood of anything, let alone a flower…”
Ally nodded. “I agree. My sense is that we are looking for a thing, an item the Baron purchased. And something suitable for a gift to a woman. While I also enjoy a good brandy now and again, I don’t think I’d get especially excited over receiving a bottle of it…” She emptied her glass.
“Good point.” He sighed and drained his. “So, that leaves us with the question of what would be the kind of gift one might purchase for a woman, that could be described as a treasure. And also merit the reference of a red flower in its name…”
“I wonder if it’s a snuffbox…” She blinked at him, head slightly tilted to one side as she considered the matter. “After all, you are the acknowledged expert in that field. Why not summon a family member who has the talent to understand and recognise the value of such a thing?”
“Hmm.” Oliver turned that suggestion over in his mind. “It’s possible. Red, you said? The amaryllis is red?”
She nodded. “Yes. A pure and vivid red, if I recall correctly. Not too common, but my aunt had one a while ago. It blooms indoors at this time of year, and it caused quite a sensation amongst her friends.”
“So that could mean a snuffbox with red enamel on it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Not the easiest of finishes, but there are great strides being made in the enamelling process.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Of course, it could also be painted. Some snuffbox artists are quite brilliant miniaturists, and might easily be able to render a red flower in their designs…” he sighed. “Which opens up a huge field of possibilities and doesn’t really help us at this particular instant.”
“True.”
He shot her a glance. “Your comments are much appreciated, especially for their brevity.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t start being snappish with me, Oliver.
I know next to nothing about snuffboxes, and defer to your expertise.
However, my instincts are veering away from them because this treasure, we’re told, was from a man to a woman he loved very much.
The mother of his children. Pretty though they are, snuffboxes are not something I’d expect to receive as a gift. ”
“All right then. Accepting your suggestion, what would you expect to receive were you to be told that it was a treasure? And that it came from a man who loved you very much.”
She met his gaze for a brief moment, then her eyes slid away. “I’m not sure, to be honest. But it would have to be something very unusual. And beautiful. And above all, meaningful…”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” she paused, clearly considering her words.
“A treasure, between a couple such as your great-grandparents, would have to be unique, I think. Different enough to…to…bring something meaningful along with it.” A frown creased her brow, and she looked at him again.
“I’m not sure how to describe this feeling, Oliver.
But since it has taken a series of strange occurrences for us to even learn about it, I cannot believe it’s anything in the ordinary way. It has to be…extraordinary.”
Her gaze ensnared him, a willing prisoner, wondering why he’d never fully appreciated her beauty, and he said the first thing that came into his mind.
“Like you.”
The way he looked at her.
Part of her wished he wouldn’t, and the rest of her gloried in the intensity simmering behind those wonderful blue eyes. Allegra struggled to remember what he’d just said.
“Uhh…I’d not go that far, but thank you.” She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and managed to look away under the pretence of struggling with her shawl.
“More brandy?” He lifted his glass. “Mine’s empty and that is an excellent vintage I hate to waste.”
A chuckle slipped out. “Brandy never goes to waste, Oliver. It won’t go off if we fail to finish the bottle, you know.”
He pouted. “Spoilsport.”
“All right.” She held out her glass. “I’ll join you, since I agree that it is indeed very pleasant.”
She missed his heat immediately as he took her glass and his own, refilling them. Returning, he passed hers to her and settled back into his spot, absently tucking the blanket around both of them.
“So if it’s not a snuffbox, what else might it be?”
Toasty warm now, Ally rested her head against the back of the couch. “What about a letter of some sort?”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “A letter? Really?”
She shrugged. “To some, words can be treasures…”
“Only if the writer is extremely literate, and a relative of Shakespeare’s. Or possibly Lord Byron, if you like that sort of thing.”
“He’s a fine poet, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not to my taste.”
“Don’t confuse the man with his words, Oliver.” She nudged him with her elbow.
He nudged her back, carefully balancing his brandy and laughing at her. “I don’t.” He sipped. “And I’m comfortable enough to allow you your indulgence with that somewhat overblown language and overly colourful metaphors that pass as poetry.”
“Gracious of you.” She laughed back.
There was something about that moment, some unexpected warmth, a certain sparkle in his eyes as he chuckled with her at the absurdity of it all.
“Oliver,” her gaze drifted to his lips.
“Ally,” he answered, matching her look and leaning close. “Kiss me again.”
“All right.”
She moved slowly, balancing her brandy in her hand as she gently touched his mouth with hers. Moving away for a brief moment, she glanced at him. “I like this, Oliver. I like the way you kiss, the way you taste…”
“As do I,” he whispered back, his breath fanning the heat she felt rising inside her.
Again their mouths touched, light feathery brushes of skin, a game, teasing, playing with each other willingly and light-heartedly.
With eyes closed, she breathed him in, an arousing scent of man, with a touch of wood smoke. He took her glass and two faint clinks sounded as he put it down next to his.
Then his arms came around her and she found herself lifted onto his lap, skirt rumpled, the blanket encasing both of them in their own private cocoon.
She was warm now, deliciously warm, his body hard against her softness, his thighs firm beneath her bottom. How was it possible to be so aware of a man in so many different ways? Every inch of her felt as if it sizzled, and she had to fight the urge to wriggle closer.
It was the brandy. It had to be the brandy, because it couldn’t possibly be Oliver himself, could it?
Then his mouth found hers again and all rational thought flew up the chimney with the flames.
This time, he devoured her. His tongue thrust deep, challenging her to meet his desires and reveal her own.
Which she was, unsurprisingly, quite happy to do.
Her hands slipped easily inside his waistcoat and discovered warmth and solid male flesh hiding beneath the fabric of his shirt.
It was a sensual pleasure to feel the curves of his body through the slippery silk; this was a man who kept active, not one who spent his days reading and his nights dining and gambling.
He groaned as she tugged his shirt free and finally – finally – touched bare skin.
“God,” he murmured. “Ally.”
Mouth curving into a smile beneath his kisses, she suddenly understood the sensation of just wanting to say someone’s name. That hearing it was enough to send tremors of pleasure skipping over skin that yearned to be stroked. “Oliver,” she whispered against his lips. “Oliver…”
He tore his mouth from hers and lifted her, laying her down on the couch so that he could lie half beside her and half on top of her.
It should have shocked her, and she should at the least have emitted a faint squeak of disapproval. But she did neither, since the sensation of lying under a man who was clearly intent on kissing the daylights out of her was something she thought she’d much rather enjoy than complain about.
To indicate her approval, she once again slipped a hand beneath his now-rumpled shirt, and marvelled at the feel of him, so firm, yet with soft skin covering the muscles she knew were there.
He wriggled out of his jacket and vest, and tugged his shirt free, allowing her access to whatever she might find interesting.
“Turn-about is fair play,” he murmured, his voice husky.
And all of a sudden, the silks of her skirt and petticoat were pulled high and for the first time she felt a man’s hand caressing her legs, her thighs…
rubbing gently, kneading, nails delicately roaming over skin that had apparently developed several million points of sensitivity.
She could never have imagined such astounding sensations…
“Tell me to stop,” he said. “If you don’t like this, tell me to stop.”
That exploring hand crept higher and strange things began to happen to Ally’s insides as Oliver toyed with her thighs, easing her legs apart and tickling the sensitive flesh above her stocking tops.
“Oh,” she whispered. And then “Oooh…”
“God, you’re beautiful.”
She barely heard him. His hand, his fingers, were strumming, touching, rubbing a place that…God, she couldn’t think…only feel…
Scarcely realising her hips thrust into his caresses, she closed her eyes and surrendered to whatever it was that crept up, and grew, and grew until she was convinced that she was about to die…
“Aaahhh….”
Her choked scream rang out, shocking her and yet relieving her of the need to do something…
Great shudders wracked her body, and her brain whirled through a sky filled with bright colours and lights that simply couldn’t exist. A maelstrom of sensations erupted within her, robbing her of thought, of speech, even of sight.
Eventually, after what could have been either an hour or a minute or two, she found herself returning to some semblance of normalcy.
Oliver lay next to her, watching her with wonder in his eyes, as his hand still pressed against skin that had never felt a man’s touch before.
“So beautiful, Ally. My God, I’ve never seen anything so lovely as you when you come.”
So that’s what it was. What had been a whispered mystical secret had now revealed itself. And it was…amazing. She swallowed, unsure of what to say. “Um, thank you, I think.”
“First time, hmm?”
“I…” He looked far too smug and self-satisfied. Enough to bring her back to reality with a thud. “Well…I can’t possibly answer that question, and well you know it.” She raised her chin as he withdrew his hand and let her push her skirts down.
“You don’t have to, my dear.”
She snorted. “We have allowed ourselves to become diverted, Oliver, probably by that brandy. Perhaps we should get back to looking for the treasure?”
He nodded. “Of course. Although I’m convinced now that I’ve already found at least one.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean.” She stood, trying her best not to wobble on legs that were far from steady, and unusually damp around their upper areas.
“Dear liar.” He laughed as he tucked in his shirt. “Next time, it’ll be my turn.”
God. She swayed as a variety of visions slithered through her mind, each one more lascivious than the last. But she managed to keep her countenance. “Ah.”
With that terse sound, she grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around herself, and turned for the door. “I think we should search the kitchen once more and then move upstairs.”