Page 10 of The Butterfly
“Niall,” she whispered, tipping her head back to gaze at him, her eyes so wide and deep, he could have drowned in them. “Kiss me.”
He wanted to. He craved it, longed for the feel of her soft, warm lips, the taste of her tongue. As always, he hesitated before taking any sort of action where she was concerned. They had long passed the days where even a slightly raised voice could send her into a fit of tears; still, she was as unpredictable as ever, as the bandages around her arms could attest. His desire for her had been contained, bottled up in the depths of his body and left there under pressure for so many years. He was afraid of what unleashing any of it onto her might mean, how it might hurt or scar her further. It was the last thing he would ever want to do.
“Hours from now, I may be so delirious I do not remember my own name,” she added. “I will shake and shiver and weep. My dreams will become more vivid than they have been in months without laudanum to dampen them. I do not know how I will survive it, or even if I can. I do not know how much time will pass before I am myself again—or, at least, as much of myself as I can be. But I do know what I want right now. I want you to kiss me like you used to. Do you remember? Those summers in Scotland, the stolen hours in drawing rooms, the nights in the hayloft?”
He could not help but smile at the memories of their tentative kissing and caressing, her begging him for more, but Niall determined not to send her to her husband a tainted woman. Now, he regretted having refused her anything. How, then, could he deny her this?
“Aye, Livvie,” he murmured, nuzzling her nose with his. “I could never forget.”
She returned his caresses, her breath tickling his cheek, her long eyelashes batting against his cheekbone as she nudged at him like a cat seeking affection.
“Help me remember,” she whispered. “Give me something to cling to when the despair begins to drown me, when my body betrays me. Make it so I can never forget that you are here.”
He obliged her without hesitation, hauling her tighter against his body and lowering his head to claim her lips. She whimpered against his mouth, the sound one of longing and bliss, not of panic or fear. It emboldened him, gave him the nudge he needed to go from gently prodding her lips to delving into her mouth with his tongue. Cupping her face with one hand, he tilted her head to better plunder her, his other hand tight at her back, the delicate bones of her frame like twigs against his fingers.
He drank from her mouth, awed at how the darkness that had consumed her for so long had done nothing to take away her sweetness, the light flooding his soul at the simple touch of her mouth to his. She smelled like a field of wildflowers and felt like Heaven in his arms, her taste headier than any sweet dessert, bubbly champagne, or rich brandy. Plunging his tongue deeper, he sought the velvety caress of hers, groaning when he found it, coaxing her to stroke that sweet little muscle against his lower lip just the way he liked.
She ignited in his arms, no longer an innocent little doll, but now a flickering flame, burning hot, reducing him to ashes. It had always been this way between them, the thin veil of innocence lifting to reveal the spitfire that lived within her slight body—all fire and heat and light. His every muscle tensed as the kiss went on, their lips meeting and parting between tongue strokes, her hands threading through his hair as he fought to keep his against her face and back. He wanted more—he wanted to slip his hands beneath her nightgown and seek out her naked flesh, to caress the hidden pink nub between her lower lips until she spent, groaning and crying out her pleasure. He wanted to turn her onto her back and drive into her, swift and deep, becoming one with her in a way he never had before.
And he felt like the worst sort of bastard for it.
He could never do any of those things, not when her mind had been so fragile for so long. Not when the lust of one man had almost been the death of her already.
She let out a little huff of frustration when he broke the kiss, her cheeks flushed and her breath ragged. He felt as if he might explode, his breeches suddenly too snug to contain the throbbing organ pleading entrance to her body. Despite that, he put a bit more distance between them, resolved to keep himself under control. He might be lowborn, but he took pride in having acquitted himself with far more honor than many of the young lords of theton. His heart had always led him when it came to Olivia, not his prick.
“Come,” he said, shifting onto his back and reaching for the book. “Let us see what Cecilia has gotten herself up to.”
He propped himself up with the pillows, then allowed her to tuck her body against his side, her head resting upon his chest. The position kept her close, but also gave him a bit of relief from the press of all those soft womanly parts that would make it difficult to even think, let alone read.
The familiar words of a book they had read together before made him smile as he thought of their stolen hours in her abandoned schoolroom long after her lessons had ended, their walks through the woods as she drilled him over letters and numbers and the sorts of things no one ever thought to teach a stable boy.
Nestling his chin on top of her head, he began to read.
Edinburgh, 1807
12 years earlier…
Niall’s whistling filled the stable stall as he went about the task of grooming his favorite black mare. Cally was a hackney horse with a nearly identical sibling huffing and snorting the next stall over. The pair of high-stepping beasts had been bred specifically for the pulling of carriages. Both stood approximately sixteen hands tall with long, elegant limbs and sinewy frames that made them quite a sight when they worked together to pull some conveyance or another. However, Cally was set apart by the white star marking her forehead, as well as her sweet temperament.
He’d come to know and recognize every horse in this stable, as with age had come more responsibility along with the expectation that he would someday replace his da as Stablemaster. No longer a lowly stable boy, Niall spent his days grooming, feeding, exercising, and otherwise caring for the eight horses placed in his care.
“Ye’re lookin’ well this mornin’, Cally girl,” he murmured to the beast while cleaning her coat with a hard-bristled brush. “The oats I added to yer feed are makin’ yer coat as shiny as a new penny. But, mayhap I’ve given ye too many. Ye’re lookin’ a bit thick in the middle there.”
Cally tossed her mane and snorted, one large, dark eye darting toward him with a heavy amount of censure. Niall chuckled, pausing to pat her flank affectionately.
“Now, now,” he crooned. “That isn’t t’ say ye aren’t still a bonny lass. And some stallions prefer a mare with a bit o’ flesh to her bones, ye know.”
Cally dipped her head, shaking it a bit as if disagreeing, which only made Niall smile wider. His father often derided him for talking to the horses apart from the usual commands. They were animals, Conall insisted, too stupid to understand. But, one look into Cally’s dark eyes, and Niall knew. The mare understood him, and so did the other seven horses he took the time to greet and chatter to as he groomed them. If nothing else, the tone of his voice kept them docile as he went about his work. And because Niall was the best groom in the stables of Dunvar House, Conall had no reason to stop him from talking to Cally as if she were an old friend.
“Fine, then,” he relented. “We’ll cut back on the oats, and get a bit more exercise, eh? That way, ye won’t outweigh Celeste so much the two o’ ye cannae pull the same carriage.”
The mare’s answering huff held a note of satisfaction, so Niall assumed she found that to be a grand idea. He set aside his brush and reached for another with softer bristles, to be used on her mane and tail.
He’d just finished smoothing her dark mane when he heard the telltale thump of dainty little feet approaching. He glanced up just in time to find Olivia peering at him over the top of the stall, hands gripping the latched door, feet rested in a gap between lower beams. At fifteen, Niall had only gotten taller, more awkward and gigantic. In contrast, Olivia had only grown more beautiful and graceful, though the gleam of mischief was more apparent in her dark eyes than ever. Instead of looking like a doll, she now resembled some sort of fairy-creature, all pink, pouting lips and wide, doe eyes and long lashes. She would be a beauty once she reached womanhood. Hell, she was one now, even at only eleven years of age.
“Hello, Niall and Cally,” she said, grinning at them from her perch.
“Back from yer mornin’ ride already?” he asked, sparing her a cursory glance.
