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Chapter 15: Sacred Art, Profane Thoughts
"Hell and damnation," Killian muttered as he carefully disengaged from her embrace. "There goes any chance of making it to Chudleigh in time for dinner."
He flopped onto his back, fixing his gaze on the gilded dragons woven into the canopy above, desperate to distract himself from the overwhelming urge to spring up and subject his wife to a rigorous post-coital examination. Thankfully, with his ardor momentarily sated, his wits had resumed their usual sharpness. And with clarity restored, he could now make sense of the situation.
He had not forced himself on her. Emma had invited him.
He had collided with her like a runaway carriage and struggled to maintain any semblance of control thereafter, yet she hadn't screamed or burst into tears. Quite the contrary—she had rather enthusiastically joined in on the fray.
He glanced at her. Her hair had tumbled over her eyes. Turning toward her, he gently brushed it away. "I gather you've survived," he said with a rough edge to his voice.
She made a peculiar noise—a mix between a cough and a hiccup, he couldn't be sure. Then she flung herself against him, "Oh, Hook," she gasped out.
The next thing he knew, her face was buried against his chest, and she was weeping.
"O, katára," he murmured, wrapping himself around her, his hand tracing soothing circles on her back. "For heaven's sake, Emma, don't…This is all rather…disconcerting," he said, burying his face in her hair. "Oh, fine, cry if you must."
He reassured himself that the tears wouldn't last forever. As distressing as it was to hear her sobs and feel the warm trickle of her tears against his skin, he knew things could have been far worse. At least she had turned to him, not away. After all, she was entitled to a good cry, he supposed. He had been rather insufferable these past few days.
No, more than that. He had been a downright brute.
Here she was, a newlywed in this sprawling fortress with its legion of servants, and he had done nothing to ease her way. He hadn't lifted a finger to make her feel at home—just as she'd accused him of behaving like his father.
He had been acting exactly like his father. Cold, aloof, and dismissing every effort she made to bridge the gap between them.
For Emma had been trying, hadn't she? She had read to him, attempted conversation, and probably believed that commissioning the portrait of his mother would be a thoughtful gesture. She had wanted him to stay when any other woman would have been ecstatic to see him gone. She had offered herself to him, when any other woman would have swooned with relief at escaping his advances. And she'd given herself willingly, passionately.
He was the one who should be shedding tears—tears of gratitude.
The cloudburst ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Emma wriggled free, wiped her face, and sat up. "Good heavens, how ridiculously emotional one can get," she said, her voice still trembling. "Is my face red?"
"Aye," he replied, though the fading light made it difficult to see straight, let alone discern the state of her complexion.
"I suppose I'd better wash up," she said. She slid off the bed, retrieved her dressing gown, and slipped it on.
"You're welcome to use my bath. I can show you the way," he offered, starting to rise from the bed, but she waved him off.
"I know where it is," she said briskly. "Mrs. Ginger was quite thorough in her tour," she added, making a beeline across the room, opening the correct door without hesitation, and disappearing through it.
As she departed, Killian swiftly inspected the bedclothes, then cleaned himself off with a shred of his shirt, which he promptly tossed into the fire.
Whatever had sparked her tearful outburst, it wasn't due to any grievous injury, he reassured himself. He'd found a trace of blood on one of the coverlet's golden dragons and a smattering on himself, but it was far from the bloodbath his fevered imagination had conjured over the past three days.
He couldn't believe how wildly his mind had spun out of control. For one thing, any simpleton might have grasped that if the female body could withstand the rigors of childbirth, it was certainly equipped to handle the, shall we say, marital apparatus—unless the man was an elephant, which, fortunately, he was not. And for another, even the dullest of minds might have recalled that this woman had never, since that fateful encounter under the lamppost in Paris, shied away from his advances. She had, in fact, spoken rather plainly—more than once and without so much as batting an eyelash—about his conjugal rights.
Where in the seven realms of reason had he gotten the absurd notion that she was some delicate flower or faint-hearted damsel? This was the woman who'd shot him!
It had to be the strain, Killian concluded. The shock of finding himself suddenly shackled in matrimony, coupled with a maddening desire for his bride, had clearly overloaded his faculties. The portrait of his mother had been the final straw, pushing his brain into complete meltdown.
By the time Emma returned, Killian had restored both himself and their surroundings to a state of impeccable order. Smee had whisked away the heaps of discarded traveling clothes, the valise was neatly stowed, the lamps were glowing warmly, a footman was dispatched to Chudleigh, and dinner was well on its way.
"You've been quite industrious," she remarked, casting an appraising glance around the room as she approached him. "Everything looks so neat and orderly."
"You were gone rather a while," he noted.
"I took a bath," she explained. "I was a bit out of sorts, as you might have noticed," she added, her gaze drifting to the knot of his sash with a furrowed brow. "I think I might have been a tad hysterical. I wish I hadn't cried, but it was beyond my control. It was… a profoundly stirring experience. I daresay you're accustomed to such things, but I am not. It left me quite shaken. I had braced myself for the worst, frankly. When the moment arrived, I mean. But you handled it with such ease, as if my inexperience was of no consequence, and you weren't the least bit put off or frustrated. And, aside from a fleeting moment, it didn't feel like the dreaded first time at all. At least, not the way I'd imagined it would be. So, with my fears allayed and the utterly extraordinary sensations… well, to put it plainly, I simply couldn't contain myself."
He had, for once, deciphered the signs with some degree of accuracy. The cosmos seemed to be in alignment, and all he needed to do now was tread carefully to maintain this precarious balance.
"My temper has been anything but steady, I'll admit," he said. "I'm not accustomed to having women around. It's…distracting."
"I'm aware of that, and I've taken it into consideration," she replied. "But, Hook, you cannot expect me to endure this again."
He stared at the top of her head, feeling his carefully ordered world collapse into chaos. In an instant, his once buoyant heart turned into a leaden casket, entombing the fragile remains of a nascent hope. He should have known better than to hope. He should have anticipated that he'd somehow turn everything to ruin. Yet, here he was, utterly bewildered as to how he had managed to destroy everything once again. He couldn't comprehend why she had been thrust into his life, offering a glimmer of hope, only to snatch it away the moment he dared to believe in it.
His face hardened, his body became rigid, but he couldn't summon the mocking laughter or the biting retort that this all-too-familiar scene seemed to demand. He had tasted happiness in her arms, felt the stirring of hope, and he couldn't surrender them without understanding why.
"Emma, I know I've been… difficult," he began. "But even so—"
"Difficult?" she interrupted, her green eyes wide with exasperation. "You have been impossible. I'm beginning to think you're not all there in the attic. The one thing I've never doubted is that you wanted me. But getting you into bed— you, the most notorious whoremonger in Christendom—good grief, it was more excruciating than dragging David to the tooth-drawer. And if you imagine I'm going to spend the rest of our lives doing that, you had better think again. Next time, my lord, you'll do the seducing—or there won't be any at all, I swear it."
She stepped back, folding her arms across her chest. "I mean it, Hook. I am utterly sick of throwing myself at you. You like me well enough. And if that first bedding didn't prove we're a match in that department at least, then you're a lost cause, and I wash my hands of you. I will not allow you to make a wreck of me."
Killian opened his mouth, but words failed him. He clamped it shut and walked to the window, sinking onto the cushioned seat and stared out. "Worse than…dragging David…to the tooth-drawer," he muttered, a shaky laugh escaping him. "Thetooth-drawer. Oh, Emma."
He heard her soft, slippered steps approaching. "Hook, are you alright?"
He rubbed his forehead, as if trying to massage some sense into it. "Yes. No. What an absolute fool," he said, turning to meet her concerned gaze. "High-strung," he said with a self-deprecating smirk. "That's my problem, isn't it? I'm high-strung."
"You're overwrought," she corrected gently. "I should have seen it. We've both been under a lot of strain. And it's harder on you because you're so… sensitive and emotional."
Sensitive. Emotional. He had the emotional range of a brick wall—or so he thought. But he didn't contradict her.
"A strain, yes," he agreed, nodding.
"Why don't you take a bath, too?" she suggested, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. "A good, long soak might do you some good, and I'll order dinner in the meantime."
"I've already taken care of it," he said. "Dinner should be up shortly. I thought we might dine here, save ourselves the ordeal of dressing for dinner."
She studied his face, her expression softening into a smile. "Maybe you're not quite as hopeless as I thought. And what about Nemo?"
"I sent a footman to Chudleigh with a note," he replied. "Told Nemo I'd see him at the wrestling match on Saturday."
Her smile faltered, and she stepped back. "I see."
"No, you don't," he said, rising to his feet. "You're coming with me."
He watched her frosty composure melt as she absorbed his words, her soft mouth curving into a smile, while a gleam of emerald mischief danced in her eyes.
"Thank you, Hook," she said. "I'd like that very much. I've never seen a proper wrestling match before."
"I daresay it will be an eye-opening experience for everyone involved," he replied, casting a mock-serious gaze over her. "I can't wait to see the look on Nemo's face when I show up with my lady wife on my arm."
"There, you see?" she teased, utterly unruffled. "I told you there were advantages to having a wife. I can be quite useful when you want to scandalize your friends."
"There is that, indeed. But in truth, my own comfort was the driving force," he said, inching away with a sly grin. "I'll need you to indulge my whims, calm my frazzled nerves, and…" he paused, eyes glinting wickedly, "warm my bed, of course."
"Oh, how utterly romantic," she declared, pressing a hand to her heart with dramatic flair. "I do believe I might faint."
"You'd better not," Killian shot back, making a beeline for the door she had just entered. "I haven't the time to catch you—my bladder's about to burst."
With the world securely in order, Killian indulged in a leisurely bath, taking the opportunity to revise his mental lexicon. His wife was promptly elevated from the generic category labeled "Females" and given her own exclusive chapter. He made a mental note that she didn't find him repulsive—a revelation that warranted serious consideration. He posited several possible explanations: (a) poor eyesight and defective hearing, (b) a slight malfunction in an otherwise sharp intellect, (c) an inherited Nolan quirk, or (d) divine intervention. Given that the Almighty hadn't done him a single favor in at least a quarter-century, Killian figured it was high time for one, but he offered his thanks to Heaven nonetheless and vowed to be as virtuous as he could reasonably manage.
His expectations for this newfound virtue were, like most of his expectations, exceedingly modest. He would never be the ideal husband. Frankly, he had barely any idea how to be a husband at all—beyond the rudimentary duties of providing food, clothing, shelter, and protection from life's trivialities. And, of course, siring offspring.
At the mere thought of progeny, Killian snapped his mental dictionary shut. He was in far too good a mood to ruin it by brooding or spiraling into another bout of existential dread over the inevitable. Besides, there was a decent chance the brats would turn out more like her than him. In any case, he had no hope of preventing their arrival, given that he couldn't keep his hands off her.
He knew when he was onto a good thing. Tumbling his wife was about as close to paradise as he was ever likely to get, and he was far too self-indulgent and depraved by nature to forgo it. As long as she remained willing, he wasn't about to lose sleep over the consequences. Something dreadful was bound to happen sooner or later—such was the pattern of his life. But since he couldn't prevent it, whatever it might be, he might as well take Horace's advice to heart: Carpe diem, quam minimum credula. Seize the day, and place little trust in tomorrow.
With matters neatly squared away for the time being, Killian joined his wife for dinner. As they dined, he found himself further revising his mental dictionary. To her already peculiar list of talents, which included a surprising grasp of the sweet science of boxing, he now added an impressive knowledge of wrestling—gleaned, she explained, from an array of sporting periodicals and countless male-dominated conversations. She had not only raised her brother but had also wrangled ten boy cousins, being the only one capable of"taming that horde of uncivilized ruffians."Yet, not one of those ingrates had ever taken her to a professional match.
"Not even Polkinghorne's bout with Cann," she said, her indignation palpable.
That legendary match had taken place in Devonport just two years prior.
"There were ten thousand spectators," she added dryly. "Tell me, how exactly does one woman stand out in such a sea of humanity?"
"One could hardly miss you, even in a crowd of a hundred thousand," he countered with smooth assurance. "You're the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on, as I distinctly recall mentioning in Paris."
She leaned back, momentarily caught off guard, a blush creeping across her flawless cheeks. "Good heavens, Hook, that was a straightforward compliment—and we're not even in bed."
"I am a scandalous rogue," he said with a smirk. "One never knows what outrageous thing I'll say—or when," he added, taking a leisurely sip of his rum. "The point is, you will attract attention. Under ordinary circumstances, you'd have a swarm of inebriated louts pestering you and distracting your escort. But since I shall be your escort, there will be no pestering or distractions. Even the most inebriated lout will keep his eyes fixed on the wrestlers and his hands to himself." He set down his glass and resumed his meal with a casual air.
"The tarts had better follow suit," she remarked, turning back to her plate. "I may not be as muscular or intimidating as you, but I have my methods. I won't tolerate such annoyances, either."
Killian kept his gaze fixed on his plate, focusing intently on swallowing the morsel that had nearly lodged in his throat.
She was possessive—of him.
The beautiful, mad creature—or perhaps blind and deaf, depending on the day—had just declared it as nonchalantly as if she'd asked for the salt, blissfully unaware that her words had just knocked the earth slightly off its axis.
"These large sporting events do tend to attract Cyprians by the cartload," he remarked, his lips twitching with the hint of a grin. "I fear you'll have your hands full…fending them off."
"I suppose it's too much to ask that you don't encourage them," she replied with a pointed look.
"Love, I wouldn't dream of encouraging them," he said, feigning innocence. "Even I know it's bad form to—to cast lures at other women while one's wife is present. Not to mention, you'd likely shoot me," he added, shaking his head in mock despair. "I only wish my self-restraint were enough. But the truly vexing thing is, they don't seem to need any encouragement. Everywhere I go—"
"It doesn't vex you in the least," she interrupted, giving him a reproachful glance. "You're well aware of your effect on women, and I'm sure it gratifies you to no end to watch them sigh and salivate over your magnificent physique. I don't wish to spoil your fun, Hook. But I do ask that you consider my pride and refrain from embarrassing me in public."
Women…sighing and salivating…over his magnificent physique.
Perhaps that brutal bedding had indeed jarred something loose in her brain.
"I can't fathom what you're on about," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Didn't I pay a king's ransom for you? Why on earth would I squander money and energy chasing other women when I've invested in one for life?"
"A few hours ago, you were ready to abandon me," she pointed out with a wry smile. "After only three days of marriage—before you'd even consummated it. You seemed to regard both my pride and your own resources with equal disdain."
"I wasn't thinking straight then," he admitted. "I was at the mercy of my frazzled nerves. Also, I'm not exactly practiced in considering anyone else's feelings. But now that my head is clearer, I see your point, and it's quite valid. You are the Marchioness of Hookstone, after all, and it's unacceptable for anyone to mock or pity you. It's one thing for me to act like a buffoon; it's another entirely if my buffoonery reflects poorly on you." He set down his fork and leaned in with mock seriousness. "Have I got that right, my lady wife?"
Her lips curved into a smile. "Perfectly," she replied, her tone dripping with approval. "What a sharp mind you have, Hook, when it's in working order. You cut straight to the heart of the matter."
The approving smile shot directly to his heart and curled warmly there.
"Good heavens, that sounds like a bona fide compliment," he said, placing a hand over his chest with mock seriousness. "And on my intellect, no less—my primitive, male intellect. I do believe I might swoon," his eyes wandered suggestively to her décolletage. "Perhaps I should lie down. Maybe…" He met her gaze again. "Are you finished, love?"
She let out a small sigh. "I daresay I was finished the moment I met you."
He rose and glided over to her chair with an air of casual elegance. "Anyone could have told you that," he said with a light touch, trailing his knuckles along her silken cheek. "I can't imagine what possessed you, to keep plaguing me as you did."
"I wasn't thinking clearly," she admitted, her voice soft.
He took her hand, drawing her up from the chair with a gentle yet insistent tug. "I'm beginning to doubt you are capable of any kind of thinking," he said, his voice laced with a hint of mockery.
Not that he was in any state to think, either. He was too painfully attuned to the sensation of her skin, flawless and porcelain white, and to the delicate, elegant hand resting in his own.
He was acutely aware of his clumsy one, his uncouth ways, his darkness—both inside and out. He still couldn't quite believe that only hours before, he had been lost in her, his primal desires consuming her innocent body. It was almost incomprehensible that his hunger was rising again, so fiercely, so soon. But then, he was a beast. All it took was a smile from her, and that monstrous, savage need surged within him, smothering intellect and shattering the fragile veneer of a civilized man.
He tried to steady himself, to speak, to seduce. She wanted to be wooed, and it was the least he could offer her. He ought to have restraint. He ought to possess that much mastery over himself. But the best he could manage was to guide her to the bed, instead of seizing her and throwing her down on the table, his own body pinning hers beneath him.
He pulled back the covers and eased her down onto the mattress. Then he gazed at her, utterly bewildered, as he waded through the murky depths of his thoughts, trying to dredge up the right words.
"I couldn't stay away," she confessed, her emerald eyes boring into his. "I knew I should, but I just couldn't. I thought you understood that. But it seems you didn't. You got that part wrong, didn't you, Hook? What on earth has been going through your head?"
He had lost the thread of the conversation. He wondered what she saw in his expression. "What exactly did I get wrong?" he asked, attempting a smile that was meant to be indulgent but probably came out more perplexed.
"Everything, it would seem," she said, her dark lashes lowering like a curtain. "So I suppose it's no wonder that I misjudged."
"Is that why you didn't stay away? Because you misjudged me?"
She shook her head. "No, and it's not because I'm addled upstairs, either. Don't you dare think I'm mad, Hook, because I'm not. I know it may look that way, but there's a perfectly logical explanation. The intellect, as you of all men should know, is no match for the intensity of animal desire. I've been in lust with you from the moment I met you."
His knees nearly gave out. He crouched in front of her, gripping the edge of the mattress as if his life depended on it. He cleared his throat. "Lust," he repeated, managing to keep the single word low and steady. He decided not to risk any more syllables for the moment.
She was searching his eyes once more. "You didn't know, did you?"
Dissembling was completely beyond his reach. He simply shook his head.
She lifted her hands to cradle his face. "You must be utterly blind. And deaf. Or hopelessly muddled. Everyone in Paris knew. You poor man. I shudder to think what on earth has been rattling around in that head of yours."
He managed a chuckle. "I thought it was me they knew about. That I was…besotted. And I was. I told you that, didn't I?"
"But, darling, you lust after every woman who crosses your path," she replied with a patience that bordered on indulgent. "Why would Paris bat an eye at that? No, it was my behavior that caused the stir. Don't you see? They noticed I was too smitten to stay away, as any sensible, upstanding lady would. That's what piqued their interest."
Darling. The word made his head spin with a giddy kind of delight.
"I wanted to be sensible," she continued. "I didn't want to pester you. I knew it would only lead to complications. But I couldn't resist. You're so... virile. So unmistakably masculine. You're big and strong, and you can lift me with one hand. I can hardly put into words what an extraordinary thrill that is."
Virile—that he understood. He was certainly that. He also understood that personal preferences were a curious thing. Until she'd arrived, he'd always found himself drawn to women of a more statuesque nature. Very well, then. Her tastes ran toward big, strong men, and he could certainly oblige on that front.
"I'd heard all the stories about you," she said. "I thought I was prepared for what I'd find. But no one described you correctly. I was bracing myself for a gorilla," she traced her index finger along his cheek, "but what I got was the face of a Greek prince. And the body of a Roman god. I wasn't ready for that. I had no defenses," she sighed softly, her hands gliding up to his shoulders. "And I still don't. Physically, I can't resist you at all."
He tried to fit Greek princes and Roman gods into the "Hook" entry of his personal dictionary, but those phrases didn't belong anywhere near his name. Just thinking about it made him want to either burst out laughing or collapse in a heap and weep. He couldn't decide which. Perhaps he was getting hysterical. Not that he was surprised; she had a talent for turning his wits upside down.
He stood up abruptly. "No need to fret, love. Lust is no trouble. Lust, I can handle quite nicely, thank you."
"Oh, I know," she replied, her eyes sweeping over him appraisingly. "You handle it with remarkable finesse."
"In fact, I'm ready to handle it this very instant," he said, stacking pillows against the headboard.
"How… accommodating of you," she murmured, her gaze flicking from the pillows to him.
He gave the heap of pillows a satisfied pat. "I want you to lie down right here."
"Naked?"
He nodded.
Without the slightest hesitation, she stood and loosened the sash of her dressing gown. He watched as the robe parted, her movements languid and deliberate. She gave a lazy shrug.
Femme fatale, he mused, utterly captivated as he watched the heavy black silk slip from her slender shoulders, gliding down over her creamy skin and achingly feminine curves before pooling with a seductive whisper at her feet.
He drank in the graceful movements of her lithe body as she climbed onto the bed, reclining against the pillows—unashamed, uninhibited, and utterly fearless.
"I almost wish I could be naked all the time," she murmured. "I love the way you look at me."
"You mean the panting and drooling?" he asked with a smirk, untying his own sash.
"No," she replied, her voice a sultry whisper. "I mean that sleepy, smoldering look you get," she laid a hand upon her belly. "It makes my insides hot and dizzy."
He shrugged off his dressing gown with a swift motion.
She inhaled sharply.
His rising shaft seemed to leap to attention, as if she'd summoned it with a mere thought. Hook glanced down and laughed. "You wanted virile? Virile is what you get."
"And big and strong," she breathed, her husky voice thick with desire. Her softened green eyes roved over his frame, drinking him in. "And beautiful. How in heaven's name was I supposed to resist you? How could you ever think I would?"
"I didn't realize you were so delightfully shallow," he said, climbing onto the bed and straddling her legs.
"It's probably for the best," she replied. "Otherwise…" she let her hand slide slowly up his thigh. "Oh, Hook, if you'd known what was racing through my mind when I first met you…"
Gently but firmly, he moved her hand away and placed it back on the mattress. "Tell me, then."
"In my mind, I stripped you down to nothing. I couldn't stop myself. It was a scandalous few moments. I was terrified my sanity would snap, and I'd actually do it—right there, in the shop, in front of Gold, in front of David."
"You undressed me," he repeated, amusement flickering in his eyes. "In your mind."
"Yes. Tore your clothes right off, actually. Just as I did not too long ago."
He leaned closer, his breath warm on her skin. "Do you want to know what went through my mind, love?"
"Something equally depraved, I hope," she murmured, her fingers caressing his chest. He captured her hand again and placed it back down.
"I wanted...to...lick you," he drawled, savoring each word. "From the top of your head...to the tips of your toes."
She shut her eyes, a delicious shiver running through her. "Depraved, yes."
"I wanted to lick you, kiss you, touch you...everywhere," he whispered against her forehead. "Everywhere that's white. Everywhere that's pink. And every secret place in between." He traced his tongue over one of her sleek eyebrows. "That's what I'm going to do now. And you must lie there...and take it."
"Yes," she breathed—a single, sibilant sigh of surrender that trembled with anticipation, her soft, ripe lips curving into a contented smile.
He brushed his lips over that small, cat-in-the-cream-pot grin and said nothing more, surrendering himself entirely to the realization of his fantasy.
The reality, he discovered, was infinitely sweeter, and the taste and scent of her far more intoxicating than even his wildest dreams.
He kissed the tip of her nose, then lingered on the silk of her cheek. He breathed her in, tasted her, and rediscovered her all at once, as if for the first time; the perfect oval of her face, the delicate slope of her cheekbones, her skin so fine and flawless it made him want to weep when he first laid eyes on her.
Perfection, he had thought back then, and the realization had nearly shattered his heart because he couldn't have her.
But now, he could—at least for this fleeting moment. He could press his lips to that perfection: her heartbreakingly beautiful face, the tantalizing curve of her dainty ear, the smooth, elegant column of her neck.
He recalled how he'd hidden in the shadows, his gaze ravenous for the sight of her pale skin illuminated by the soft glow of lamplight. Now his lips trailed down the alabaster shoulder he'd once watched from afar, then journeyed further down her left arm. Her fingers curled, and her breath escaped in sweet, breathy sighs that thrummed through his veins and set his heart humming like a finely tuned cello.
He lavished her with kisses, worshiping her firm, round breasts, rising and falling with each quickened breath. His tongue flicked over her taut, blushing nipples, savoring her soft, urgent moans. Yet he forced himself to move on, knowing there was more to explore—more to cherish. He would take nothing for granted, experience every inch, because for all he knew, the world could end tomorrow, and Hell might open its gates to claim him.
He continued his descent, scattering kisses over her smooth belly and the tempting curve of her hips, down the outside of her slender, shapely leg, to her delicate ankle, and on to the very tips of her toes, just as he'd promised. Then, slowly, he made his way back up, trailing his lips along her satin-smooth inner thigh.
She was trembling now, and his loins were heavy, molten, and more than eager.
But he wasn't finished, and only the present moment could be trusted. This might be all he ever had, all he ever would have.
So he continued to kiss and savor every inch of her, from her toes to her temples and back again.
Then his tongue trailed over the velvet-soft skin just above the dark, damp nest of curls between her thighs.
"You're beautiful, Emma," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. "Every last inch of you."
He let his fingers slip into the damp, shadowy curls.
She moaned.
He lowered his mouth to her warm, wet core.
She gave a low, throaty cry, her fingers tangling in his hair.
Her feminine cries of pleasure hummed through his veins. The intoxicating scent and taste of her flooded his senses. She was all he desired in the world, and she was his, yearning for him, slick and burning with need.
He worshiped her with his mouth for wanting him. He pleasured her for the sheer, delirious joy of it, until her hands clenched in his hair and she cried out his name, and he felt the shuddering tremors that coursed through her body.
Then, finally, he plunged himself into her sacred, welcoming warmth and joined her completely.
Then the world quaked for him, too, and if it had ended in that instant, he would have gladly descended into damnation, for she clung to him and kissed him as if there were no tomorrow, as if she would hold him and want him forever.
And then the universe seemed to explode, and he spilled himself into her, feeling as though his very soul had spilled as well. He would have surrendered that soul willingly if it were the price of this moment of pure, unadulterated bliss she bestowed upon him.
The next morning, Emma gave him the icon.
Killian found it waiting for him at his place when he entered the breakfast room. It was perched between his coffee cup and his plate. Even in the dim light of an overcast morning, the pearls shimmered, topaz and rubies glinted, and diamonds threw out shards of rainbow light. Beneath the glimmering golden halo, the gray-eyed Madonna gazed wistfully upon the scowling infant in her arms.
A small, folded piece of notepaper was tucked under the bottom of the jeweled frame. His heart pounding, Killian pulled it out and unfolded it.
"Happy Birthday,"it read. That was all.
He looked up from the note to his wife, who sat across from him, her sleek hair haloed by the hazy light streaming in from the window.
She was buttering a piece of scone, utterly oblivious, as always, to the cataclysm she'd just set in motion.
"Emma," he managed, barely squeezing the syllables past the constriction in his throat.
"Yes?" She set down the knife and spooned a dollop of preserves onto her scone.
He frantically thumbed through his mental lexicon, searching for words, but the right ones eluded him. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for.
"Emma,"he repeated, more forcefully.
The piece of scone paused halfway to her lips. She looked up at him, her gaze calm and steady.
Killian gestured vaguely at the icon.
She followed his gesture. "Oh, that. Well, I thought, better late than never. And yes, I realize it's not exactly a gift since it technically belongs to you. Legally, everything I have—or nearly everything—became yours the moment we married. But we'll just have to pretend it's a proper birthday present, seeing as I didn't have time to think of, let alone find, something more appropriate." She popped the buttered and overly sweetened morsel into her mouth, as if she had just explained everything thoroughly, as if the matter were settled and not a single piece of the sky had come crashing down.
For the first time, Killian had a glimmer of understanding of what it must be like to be David Nolan: possessing the requisite amount of gray matter, yet utterly clueless about how to get it to work. Perhaps, he mused, Nolan hadn't been born that way. Maybe he'd just been rendered brain-dead by a lifetime of emotional bombshells.
Perhaps the term femme fatale ought to be interpreted more literally. Perhaps it was the brain she was fatal to.
Not my brain, Killian vowed to is not going to turn me into a blithering imbecile.
He could navigate this. He could untangle the knots in his mind. He was just caught off guard, that's all. The last birthday gift he'd received had come from his mother when he was a mere eight years old. The tawdry offering from Pan and Rufio on his thirteenth—a tart he ended up paying for himself—hardly counted.
It was shock; plain and simple. Profound shock, he'd admit, because he had truly believed Emma would sooner toss the icon into a vat of boiling acid than let him lay eyes on it. He hadn't even dared to inquire about it during the marriage negotiations, convinced she'd sold it ages ago. He had resolutely forbidden himself to imagine—let alone hope—for even a split second, that she hadn't.
"This is... a most unexpected delight," he managed, adopting the tone of a man with a modicum of maturity. "Efcharistó. Thank you."
Her smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "I knew you'd appreciate it."
"I cannot possibly fathom all the layers of meaning and symbolism," he replied, his voice a masterclass in measured calm. "But then, I am merely a man, and my brain is far too primitive for such intricate considerations. What I can see, however—once the grime was wiped away—is that it is a masterpiece. I doubt I'll ever tire of gazing upon it."
That was well done, he thought. Polite. Mature. Sensible. He just needed to keep his hand flat on the table to hide its slight tremor.
"I hoped you'd feel that way," she said. "I was certain you'd notice how extraordinary and rare it is. It's far more evocative, wouldn't you agree, than the usual Stroganov fare, fine as those are."
"Evocative," he echoed, his eyes tracing the richly painted figures. Even now, though it was his, he felt a twinge of unease, reluctant to delve too deeply into the emotions it stirred.
She rose and drifted to his side, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder. "When I first laid eyes on it, after it had been restored and polished to its former glory, I was deeply moved," she said softly. "The feelings it stirred were peculiar, to say the least. It seems, at this echelon of artistry, I find myself rather out of my depth. You, on the other hand, are the connoisseur. I am merely a magpie of sorts, collecting shiny things without always knowing what compels me—though I never doubt their worth."
He glanced up at her, a frown of confusion crossing his features. "Are you asking me to decipher what makes this piece so remarkable?"
"Beyond the unusual hue of her eyes," she replied. "And the extravagant use of gold leaf. And the meticulous craftsmanship. None of that fully explains why it stirs such powerful emotions."
"It moves you because you're hopelessly sentimental," he said, though his gaze reluctantly returned to the icon.
He cleared his throat, adopting the patient tone of a professor unraveling a mystery. "We're used to the standard Russian pout, yes. But this—this is something else entirely. Look at Baby Jesus—he's not just pouting, he's outright sulking, as if he's tired of the whole affair, or perhaps hungry—or simply craving attention. And his mother, well, she's not wearing that usual tragic mask. She's frowning, yes, but only mildly, as if she's a bit irritated because the child's being difficult. Yet there's the faintest hint of a smile, as if she's about to forgive him. She knows he's just a child, unaware of the sacrifices she makes. Innocent little brat, he takes her love for granted, never pausing to appreciate it. And so he frets and scowls... blissfully unaware."
Killian paused, the words hanging in the air as the room grew unnervingly still, and the woman beside him seemed almost too quiet, as if the atmosphere had shifted in a way neither had anticipated.
"It's a pose so natural, so profoundly human," he continued, carefully maintaining a light and almost indifferent tone. "We forget, momentarily, that these are holy figures and instead become captivated by the everyday drama unfolding within the ornate frame. If this Madonna and child were merely saintly and remote, the piece wouldn't be half as captivating or rare."
"I see what you mean," she replied softly. "The artist has captured the essence of his subjects—the mother's tender love for her little boy, the fleeting mood shared between them."
"That's what tugs at your heartstrings," he said, a trace of something deeper threading through his words. "Even I find myself drawn in, theorizing about their lives, their stories, despite knowing they've been dust for centuries. It's the artist's genius—he teases the viewer, making you wonder, making you care. It's almost as if he's played a clever trick on us, don't you think?"
Glancing up from the icon to Emma, he forced a laugh, as though this exquisitely poignant depiction of maternal love were nothing more than an amusing puzzle.
She squeezed his shoulder, her touch gentle but meaningful. "I knew there was more to it than my untrained eye could see," she said softly. "You're so perceptive, Hook." Then she quickly moved away, returning to her seat.
But not quickly enough. He caught it—a fleeting expression she hadn't fully concealed. He saw it in her eyes, heard it in the softness of her voice: sorrow... pity.
His heart twisted, a dark storm of rage churning within him—rage at himself for revealing too much, and at her for perceiving it so swiftly, so accurately, for recognizing not just what he had said, but what he had felt.
But Killian was not a child. He wasn't powerless. No matter what he had inadvertently exposed, his essence remained unchanged. He had not altered in the slightest.
In Emma, he had found something good, and he intended to make the most of it. He would let her make him happy, yes—but he'd sooner be flayed alive and boiled in oil than allow his wife to pity him.