Chapter 8 #2
But I have to live in the real world. Such things are not for me.
Tristan shrugged. “As you were saying, after this week, there will still be seven weeks of pregnancy ahead for your sister. You will just have to endure Gillray for two months. Such hardship. Fine food, a nice house, servants to wait on you. However will you manage?”
His words were so barbed that Christine was unable to prevent herself from replying in kind. His sarcasm stung.
“Yes,” she snapped, “such hardship as being bartered to Lord Dreadford like a broodmare for the advancement of Lady Gillray. Sold to be his mistress. Why do you think I set so much value on trust? It is literally all I have.”
Her voice wavered as anger gave way to something like despair. “You ask, you prod, but you do not give. Tell me why you are so keen that Charles should face justice. What is it to you? Money?”
Tristan did not reply. Christine threw up her hands.
“You see? When it is your turn, you dodge and evade but demand total honesty from me!”
She turned and fled, skirts whipping, along a hedge-lined path that led, she knew not where.
All she knew was that she needed to be away from him.
At that moment, his company was intolerable.
She stopped, panting, in the dappled green hush of an arboretum.
There, she sank to the ground and pressed her face into her hands. It was hopeless. All of it.
“Christine.”
She flinched. He was there, of course, he was. Tristan dropped down beside her on the grass, heedless of his fine clothes.
“Go away,” she muttered.
“No.”
“Why must you torment me?”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“Because I have torments enough of my own.”
She lifted her head. His face looked different here, shadowed and unguarded.
“You want three facts?” he said. “Here are mine. My father died when I was a boy. No pain I have ever known compares,” his voice roughened.
“Soon after, my uncle, who had become a surrogate father to me, died falling from his horse.
I went from climbing trees and sketching animals and plants to being a Duke. Alone.
“Three facts,” he finished with a somber dip of his head
Christine’s breath caught.
He reached, gently brushed away her tears with his thumb. “Now yours.”
She swallowed. “I was treated as a slave at Gillray. You know I have a brother. The third…my father died when his heart gave out after Charles’s scandal. He died of shame. Of grief. Of a broken heart. I will give you a fourth for free. I love my brother and I hate him. Both at the same time.”
The silence was heavy, full of ghosts.
Tristan’s hand lingered against her cheek. “Why were you crying?”
“Because my life is hopeless,” her voice cracked, “I fled Gillray for a week, but when this ends, I must return. To worse humiliation as punishment, to be sold to Dreadford so that she can curry favor.”
“No.” The word came like steel.
“What choice do I have?”
“You have me.”
Her breath hitched. “You?”
“As protection against Dreadford. As for what will become of you at the end of the games? We will see, but you will not be alone.”
Christine stared. But she could not stare into his eyes for long without becoming lost in them. Those dark blue depths drew her in. She lost her grip on the immediate. There was only his body, so close to hers. His eyes were fixed upon hers. His hands…
He cupped her cheek, and the stare was broken. For a moment, she missed the blindfold. She wanted to be free of sight, free of every sense except touch. She closed her eyes instinctively, lifting her own hand to touch his.
His palm was firm and marked with a curious scar, a straight line that ran diagonally from the base of his index finger to the heel of his hand. She removed his hand from her cheek and looked at it, tracing the line of the scar with her finger.
“What is this?” she whispered.
He ran his hand up her arm, making her shiver.
“It does not matter.”
His caress reached her neck, and Christine closed her eyes once more, biting her lip. She shook her head, clinging to rationality against all odds.
“I cannot trust you,” she said.
“You can trust me to serve my own ends. I will benefit greatly from this arrangement,” Tristan whispered.
“You are a wolf,” Christine said, taking his hand and pressing his fingers to her lips, biting gently at his fingertips.
She was consumed with the desire to taste him. Savor him. His scent, the flavor of his skin. The feel of his muscles is so well developed and strong. She had never been in the presence of such masculinity, and it lit an unquenchable fire within her.
“That is what they say. I would rather you judge for yourself,” Tristan replied, “what can I do to persuade you of my sincerity?”
Christine found herself laughing. It had the throaty, husky sound of desire. Her imagination burned with thoughts she never had before.
He lunged across the minute space separating them and connected with her. Their lips clashed, battled. The kiss did not begin with tender, gentle probing. Desire was unleashed, not awakened.
Tristan’s arms went around her, pinning her body to his. Her own arms clutched at him. Thought fled. She had met this man the day before and now half lay beneath a tree in his arms. It was scandalous. But she did not care.
Her lips parted in obedience to his. His tongue darted into her mouth, touched hers. It sent shock-waves of pleasure through her. She countered, enjoying the taste of him. One hand followed the line of her back until it reached her bottom. He squeezed, and she moaned into his furious kisses.
No man had ever touched her so. His touch moved on, tracing the line of her leg. She wished her skirts would disappear and that his hand would come into direct contact with her skin. He reached her knee, then reversed direction, fingers dancing up the back of her thigh.
Then she gasped, breaking away from the kiss as he squeezed her breast with his other hand.
She melted and found herself lying down.
The grass was thick and soft, and Tristan’s body was half across hers.
One hand paid attention to her breasts, the other explored her all over.
Christine writhed in paroxysms of pleasure.
Tristan shifted atop her, and his manhood came into contact with her loins.
Christine moaned against his neck, feeling the pulsing hardness, insistent and unyielding.
That was what an aroused male felt like.
She couldn’t even imagine what that would feel like when joined with her body.
It both terrified and intoxicated her. She wanted it more than breath.
A tinkling bell broke through their desire, brought them back to the world.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Luncheon is about to be served!” The dowager duchess’s voice sang out.