Warning: This entry contains sexual content. [NON-explicit]
Note: If you are OF AGE and feel that this chapter doesn't "live up to" the overall story rating [M], then please see my homepage for the unabridged version of Chapter Twelve... which is most definitely rated [M]! (I tend to rate my own work a bit strictly, just to be on the safe side.)
Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept [Scene 4 of 4]
This isn't the first time he's seen Alice wearing a dress. No, of course not. Why, she'd even worn a dress he'd made just for her. (Although, if he'd had more time and a selection of fabrics and a bit of trimming it might have turned out considerably better...) Despite that, Tarrant can't help thinking that he's never really noticed Alice wearing a dress before. Tarrant hadn't realized he could surpass himself in his skills in noticing Alice. He'd rather thought himself the expert at it. Until now.
"... never mentioned it before?"
Tarrant blinks, gives himself a brief shake, and realizes Alice had just asked him a question.
"I'm sorry, Alice. What was that?"
He sits, with his knife and fork still in hand – still gleaming! – and his untouched plate cooling in front of him. The scent of the dinner he'd ejected Thackery from the kitchen in order to prepare holds no appeal for him. From the moment Alice had arrived this evening, he'd been able to do little else than simply notice her.
And, oh what there is to be noticed!
The gown she's wearing is a deep blue and it seems vaguely familiar, reminding him of a moonlit masquerade and music drifting on the summer breeze long ago... Alice is even lovelier wrapped up in that blue, but it's her shoulders – irresistible! – that keep him riveted, for they are completely and utterly bare. Tarrant manages an awkward swallow as Alice reaches for her water glass and takes a sip. Her short hair curls gently at the nape of her neck and he helplessly follows the slope of it down to her collarbone and the tiny hollow at its center. And there, just to the side, he sees the end of her heart line, poised like the trail of a lover's signature from his quill, over the curve of her breast. The plunging neckline and the insignificant scraps of fabric wrapping around her upper arms in a mockery of sleeves reveals the graceful, unchangeable, unmistakable evidence that she is completely, absolutely, irrevocably his Alice!
As she lowers the crystal stemware, Tarrant notices the shimmering of his silverware in his hands. Trembling, again. Alice's hand is not very steady, either, he notes as the water sloshes a bit.
"I was saying," she says, reclaiming her fork in her hand. Tarrant stares – defeated and distracted – at her pale fingers as they wrap around the utensil. "That you never told me you were so skilled in the kitchen. Why didn't you mention it?"
Tarrant opens his mouth to reply, but – meeting Alice's gaze – finds he has to clear his throat before any sound will emerge. "I haven't the slightest idea," he says, replying only to the question directly rather than the inquiry behind it.
Alice smiles and glances down at her plate, which is noticeably emptier than Tarrant's. (Oh, he'd hoped she would like it!) He has yet to give a thought to his own meal and with a vision like the one opposite him, he feels no inclination whatsoever to redirect his attention.
Tonight, her skin seems so soft and warm and he knows how her hair smells – he'd sampled its scent as he'd pushed her chair in for her! – and, if he'd had but a moment more, he might have been able to measure the visible curve of her back...
The invitation Alice is wearing teases, tortures, torments...!
The knife and fork quiver again, reflecting the candlelight.
Touch me... the dress seems to whisper.
He clutches his silverware tighter.
As Alice lifts another morsel to her mouth, as Tarrant watches it disappear between her lips, he squeezes his eyes shut briefly and promises himself that he will never as long as he lives invite Alice to a private dinner again!
Yes, this is an unmitigated disaster: he can't concentrate on anything but that expanse of lovely, marked – his mark! – skin. He can't speak for the ache that has conquered every part of him. He can't release his knife and fork, not even to remove the perfectly clean napkin from his lap, for fear a desperate, overwhelming, fevered madness will possess him. And then what would stop him from touching, tasting, taking everything he desires?
There's a soft clatter as Alice lays her fork down. Unable to resist just one more glance, he opens his eyes.
"I have a proposal," she offers tentatively.
"Ah...?" At least his nod is coherent, he muses darkly.
"Tonight, let's bow to the logic of Underland and have dinner... afterward."
If Tarrant had kept a clock in his parlor, he's sure the sound of its ticking and tocking would have been exceptionally noticeable. Almost as magnificently noticeable as Alice! He stares, comprehending her words but fearing to understand completely, quite obviously tongue-tied. (He's sure he'll be highly embarrassed about it later, but he simply doesn't have the resources to dwell on it at the moment.)
Alice stands, the fabric of her dress brushing against her chair and the edge of the table cloth. He can only watch as she rounds the table and approaches him. When she's so close he can feel the heat of her arms across his, when her fingers gently grasp his own knife and fork, intending to lift them from his hands, he panics.
"Alice, I..."
Those delightful fingers pause just an instant away from touching his own. "Have you changed your mind?" she asks calmly.
Calm. Yes, calm is good, he tells himself. Draws a steadying breath, only to have Alice's scent kick the world upside-down.
"Too much," he tells her, not even considering the possibility that she might not understand. There are no words that can describe his desire. He's waited for this moment all his life. Ever since that moment when the White Queen had asked his Fa about the heart line... In that moment, Tarrant had realized what a heart line truly meant. And it had not been until well after the deaths of his family, friends, and fellow hatters – when he'd realized that he'd lost this miracle for all time – that he'd felt his heart shatter from desolation and loneliness.
And here Alice is offering it to him before the conclusion of dinner!
He shouldn't let her take the silverware from his hands, but he watches as they're laid down upon the table. He shouldn't let her remove the napkin from his thigh, but that also is set aside. He shouldn't let her take his hands and urge him up and toward the bedroom.
Oh, how he shouldn't!
But moments later, he's there, standing beside his bed and Alice's hands are working at his cravat.
"This is your new suit, isn't it?" she asks. "The one you wore to the banquet after each duel?"
Duel... He shivers at the thought, his mind struggling to form coherent thought. Is this another of Alice's duels? In a way, he hopes it is. He wants her to... well, not fight him perhaps... but he wants her to seek her own pleasure, her own victory tonight as well. Tarrant would give her anything she desires, if only he could be sure the madness would allow it of him.
His cravat is folded and placed on the side table. His cuff links follow. He feels a spike of mind-blanking panic-lust-want-need-MUST-HAVE! as her fingers unbuckle his belt. He fists his hands and clenches his jaw.
The buttons of his waistcoat surrender to her and then the jacket and vest are laid across a conveniently placed chair. Alice places her hands on his arms and guides him back a step to the bed. He sits, dazed, as she pulls off his boots and socks.
"All right?" she whispers.
His fingers curl into the bedding like desperate claws. Tarrant's entire body is tense, wound, coiled. He manages a nod with difficulty.
She holds his gaze for a moment, cradling his face in her palms, before she smiles softly and turns. "Would you?" she asks over her shoulder.
Tarrant stares at the line of buttons clinging to the curve of her spine. He's not sure how long he simply looks at those mocking little closures, but Alice doesn't pull away as he takes one calming breath after another. Finally, when his hands are hands once again rather than frantic claws, his fingers touch the first button and gently urge it back through the button hole.
With the first undone, he pauses, evaluates himself, and determines he might try another... With each button he hesitates, waits for the madness to take him, but nothing of the sort happens. Finally, when there are no more buttons to undo and the sheer fabric of Alice's chemise is revealed, Alice takes one step away and the dress slides off. She places it beside his jacket and vest on the chair, steps out of her slippers, and pulls something from this left jacket lapel.
Feeling as if he might break into thousands of tiny pieces at the slightest provocation, Tarrant returns his hands to the bedclothes and clutches them in his grasp.
Taking a seat next to him, lovely in only her underthings – the delicate chemise that is far, far too thin for his peace of mind and a layer of petticoats – Alice turns toward him.
"Are you ready?" she asks.
He notes that she doesn't ask him if he's sure. There is nothing he is more sure of! She asks if he's ready. He closes his eyes briefly and prays that the madness will not make an appearance tonight. Tarrant nods and forces himself to look at her.
For a moment, he stares at the fabric pin in her right hand. When he accepts it, their fingers brush and the touch settles him in an unanticipated way. When Alice offers him her heart-line finger, he holds it steady with his hand, leans down to brush a kiss over her palm and then, meeting her gaze, applies the pin... for the last time.
Her breath hitches as the point breaks the skin, but she doesn't flinch. Tarrant waits a moment, long enough for the bead of blood to swell, and then guides her fingertip to his mouth. He can't help closing his eyes to savor the third and final experience with her blood. His tongue slides over her skin once, twice. The arm in his grasp shivers. With pleasure, he hopes. The first of innumerable to come...
Opening his eyes, Tarrant feels heat and urgency run riot within him at her dazed expression, her parted lips. Releasing her hand, he offers the pin to her as well as his left hand. Alice is as silent as he had been: she holds his hand aloft, positions the pin, meets his gaze, and pushes it home.
Home.
Aye, he and Alice have that now. Together.
He feels slightly dizzy – giddy! – watching her eyelashes flutter closed, her mouth open and his fingertip disappear within it. The touch of her tongue makes his entire being twitch and the gentle suction she applies makes him tear at the quilt with his free hand.
"Alice..."
With aching slowness, she withdraws his heart-line finger, opens her eyes and says, "Yes."
That's all he needs to hear.
The passionate kiss and the desperate embrace that follow are tender in their purity, their honesty. Tarrant holds nothing back from her and is rewarded by the sound of his name, gasped so breathlessly, in Alice's voice. For this voice, this woman, Tarrant will do anything. Be anyone. Tonight, he is her lover.
These moments belong to them completely for Time is left outside the door of the room. There is only now and please and give-take-MINE-YOURS-US-ONE!
Alice is HIS now!
Every thought reduces to that one truth.
He concedes to her and she reaches for her own victory. Reaches for it, discovers it, and reveals the way to Tarrant. In the end, he realizes, in this bed together, pleasure and victory are indistinguishable from each other.
And there is no room for the madness he so fears here!
Shaking and spent, Tarrant studies her closed eyes, the burgeoning smile on her lips – like no other smile he's ever seen in her features. Her hands drop away from him as every muscle in her body relaxes. Tarrant regards his Alice with reverence. He reaches out and smoothes a few wayward strands of hair – she'll need a haircut again before the next duel, whenever it comes! – away from her eyes, which she opens slowly.
"Mmmm," she says, and re-wraps her arms around his neck. "Are you all right?"
Is he all –?
Tarrant leans down and kisses her soundly. "Aye. You? Did I hurt you?"
Beneath him, she stretches luxuriously. "It was lovely..."
He notices that she hadn't answered his question but, nevertheless, she appears to be quite... satisfied. Gently, and a bit shakily, he sinks down onto the bed beside her, gathers her into his arms and presses his nose into her hair. On his chest, her fingers trace patterns over his heart.
"It's revealing," she whispers and Tarrant looks down to see the emergence of rosy lines, curling and twining in a four-pointed, unending knot.
"We're bound, now. In heart, by blood." His fingers trail over her shoulder and down her arm.
She sighs. "So it's finished, then?"
Tarrant smiles gently. His Champion, always concerned with her duties. "Nae," he whispers, taking her hand in his and lacing their fingers together. "'Tis only jus' beginnin'."
[End of Chapter 12]
Note: The Epilogue will be posted next, so this story is not quite finished yet...