Chapter Eleven
For one hundred years King Herla led his wild hunt, and all those who had the misfortune to see the shadowy riders in the moonlit sky crossed themselves and muttered a prayer, for death often followed such a sighting. On one night of the year, and one night only, King Herla and his hunt became corporeal: the night of the autumn harvest when the moon was full. On that night everyone who could hid in terror, because King Herla sometimes caught up mortals into his wild hunt, dooming them for eternity.
It was on such a night that King Herla captured a young man. His name was Tam.…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
Maximus was just sealing a letter in his sitting room when he heard the door to his bedroom open. Craven had already gone down to tend to Kilbourne, and the other servants had strict instructions not to bother him between the hours of ten at night and six in the morning. Maximus rose and crossed to look in his bedroom.
Artemis stood by his bed, her beautiful dark gray eyes calmly inspecting it.
Something within his veins began to heat. “These are my private rooms,” he said as he strolled toward her.
“I know.” She watched him without any fear. “I’ve come to give you back your ring.”
She unwrapped the fichu from about her neck, revealing the plain square neckline of her dress and the chain that disappeared into the valley between her breasts. Dipping a finger into the shadowy recess, she pulled out the chain and drew it off over her head. He just caught sight of something else on the chain—something green—and then she took the ring off before tucking the chain into a pocket and giving the ring to him. He stepped closer to her and took the ring between his fingers. It was warm from her body heat, as if she’d brought the ancient metal to life. Holding her gaze, he screwed the ring onto his left little finger. As he stared into her eyes she seemed to stop breathing and the color rose, delicately pink, in her cheeks, giving the illusion of vulnerability. Something in him wanted to seize her and lick the tenderness from her sweet skin.
He swallowed. “Why are you here?”
She shrugged one delicate shoulder. “I told you: to bring you your ring.”
“You come to a bachelor’s rooms—bedroom—well after dark all by yourself to give him a trinket you could just as easily hand him in the morning.” His voice was mocking. He wanted to break her suddenly. To make her feel the rage he did at the situation they had been placed in. Were it not for her history—and his—he might’ve courted this woman. Might’ve made her his wife. “Have you no care for your reputation?”
She stepped toward him until she was so close he fancied he breathed the same air as she and when she tilted her face up to look at him he saw that she wasn’t nearly as calm as he’d imagined.
“No,” she murmured, her voice a siren’s song, “none at all.”
“Then I’ll be damned if I will,” he muttered and kissed her.
THERE. THERE IT was again: that whirlpool pulling her in, sweeping away all the doubts and fears and sorrow, all her thoughts. Leaving in their place only feeling, pure and searing. He licked into her mouth with a hot, conquering tongue. Artemis stood on tiptoe, trying to get closer to him, spreading her fingers wide against the silk of his banyan. If she could, she would’ve crawled right into him, made a home for herself in his broad, strong chest, and never emerged again.
This man, she wanted this man, despite his wretched title, his money, his land, his history, and all his myriad obligations. Maximus. Just Maximus. She’d take him bare naked if she could—and be the gladder for it.
The man without the trappings was what she craved, but since his trappings came with him, she’d take them perforce as well.
He pulled back, his chest heaving, and looked at her angrily. “Don’t start something you mean to stop.”
She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t mean to stop.”
His eyes narrowed. “I cannot give you marriage.”
She’d known. She’d never thought he could—she would’ve sworn so had she been asked a minute earlier—but his blunt words were an arrow of pain piercing her heart nonetheless. She bared her teeth in a smile. “Have I asked you to?”
“No.”
“And I never shall,” she vowed.
He still wore his white wig and she snatched it off, flinging the expensive thing aside. Underneath, his dark brown hair was shorn close to his head. She ran her hands over it, reveling in the intimacy. This was the private man beneath. This was the man without his public persona.
Suddenly she wanted all his disguises stripped away. She began working frantically at the buttons of his banyan, almost tearing the beautiful shot silk in her haste.
“Hush,” he murmured to her, catching her hands with his own. He looked at her, and although his voice was gentle his face was not kind. “Are you experienced, my Diana?”
She scowled. The very last thing she wanted was for him to send her away because of some ridiculous scruples. On the other hand, she didn’t want any more lies between them. “No.”
His expression didn’t change, save for a small, satisfied curve of his lips. “Then by your leave, we’ll take this slow, both for your sake and because I have a mind to savor you.”
If she’d wanted to protest, she wouldn’t have been able to. He spread her hands wide and bent to take her mouth again. She felt the press of his thumbs, rubbing in slow, sensuous circles on her palms even as his lips parted hers. The kiss lingered achingly, as if they’d all the time in the world. He licked across her upper lip, pulling back teasingly when she opened for him.
“Maximus,” she moaned.
“Patience,” he chided, and angled his head before pressing his mouth against hers again.
She tried to pull her hands from his, but his grip was too strong. He chuckled low in his throat and pressed into her, still holding her hands wide. She was distracted by a nip at the corner of her mouth and then she found herself falling backward.
For a split second alarm made her frame stiffen… and then she bounced on a soft, feathered mattress. Artemis looked up and saw Maximus standing over her that satisfied little smile on his lips again.
He reached down and traced the line of her throat, his touch light, nearly tickling as his fingers trailed to where her bodice cut across her breasts.
She shivered.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten when your fichu slipped from your dress,” he murmured. “Strange, for I’ve seen more immodest décolletages at every ball I’ve ever attended, yet I’ve been entirely unable to remove the thought of your breasts from my mind.” His gaze flicked up to hers, dark and enigmatic. “Your breasts and other parts of you. Perhaps it’s the very fact that you usually cover yourself so modestly in public that makes the unveiling that more anticipated. Or perhaps”—he bent and whispered in her ear—“it’s you. Merely you.”