Page 31 of The Scent of Snow
The river roared, its waves surging and ebbing. The first arch yielded. The second followed, surrendering to the insistent push. Stone by stone, the walkway surrendered, each piece cascading into the water like the mournful notes of a fado. Anne and Pedro stood transfixed, witnesses to the end of an era. When the last remnants of the bridge disappeared, a hush fell upon the river. A ghostly mist replaced the once mighty Misarela. The veil caught the glint of the winter sun, casting ephemeral rainbows before it too faded into the chill air.
A gasp escaped her parted lips, and Anne made the sign of the cross. She closed her eyes, hoping Lord Rafael’s soul might finally find peace.
The murmuring stopped. Pedro embraced her, and they looked at the river, enjoying the silence.
“Your bridge is gone.”
“I’ll have a temporary pontoon built in its place, and I will commission a larger one that allows carriages to cross. I’m relieved. I want the devil to take no part in our family.”
Anne placed her hand over his cheek, searching his gaze. “I’m sorry for trying to seduce you and threatening to leave —”
“I’m proud of you. You wanted something, and you went after it. My countess should be able to teach my son some grit.” He lifted his brows at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Our daughter, too, shouldn’t be raised believing all men are good before proving otherwise.”
He then gazed at the horizon, his voice solemn. “Despite my efforts, I’m certain the Almosters will always be in the thick of things here in Portugal. And Europe.”
Anne froze, searching his expression. She didn’t bother asking if he was jesting. Pedro was serious when it mattered. She placed a finger on his lips. “Are you sure? Because I can wait. A year, forever. You complete me, and I want for nothing else.”
“A certain boy taught me that a man’s lineage doesn’t determine his character. I will need your guidance, Anne, and it won’t be easy. If you have doubts—”
Anne smiled through her tears. “You will be the best father on this side of the peninsula.”
He caught her by the hand, tugging her away from the river.
“Where are we going?” Laughing, she raced to keep up with his much larger steps. He paused long enough to pick her up.
“I want inside my meadow.”
The world outside the bedroom froze. Nothing mattered. But her. Him. She shed her clothes and came to him nude. Her skin was so light she was almost translucent. Ever since he found this spark of life in his life, he fought to keep her by his side. He came full circle from villain to hero. He was neither. He was what was reflected in her eyes. And in her eyes, he saw what he craved—the certainty that she would never leave him. The rest was history, tide, and what had to be done.
Ana, ethereal and yet earthly, goddess and mortal, friend and lover — his. She took a step in his direction, and everything faded.
Pedro cradled her face. She gazed at her toes and then at him from beneath gold-tipped eyelashes — the Atlantic seen from the shade of palm trees. The only dawn he chased. His chest expanded with a hush of air. The world could end now, and he would be in paradise.
He strummed his fingers over the strands of her hair as if playing the guitar, then fanned the champagne mass over her shoulders, dressing her with the precious mantle.
“Whenever I see you nude, no earthly trappings to detract from your beauty, I fear you are not from this world.”
“If I were an angel, the moment I saw you was my downfall. You are my heaven.”
Pedro tilted her head to the side, and for a second, he breathed the same air as her. “I would battle heaven and hell to keep you by my side.”
“You won’t have to. I’m here to stay.”
He traced her upper lip with his tongue. A taste was not enough, and he swept inside, craving more of her essence.
Sunlight poured from the gauzy curtains, adding a brilliant light to their bedroom. Anne was an extension of him, their communion so complete he felt in his body her desire, where she needed him to touch her. He let her guide his hands where she yearned for him. She needed skin-to-skin, and together, they got rid of his clothes.
He sat back on the mattress, leaning on the bed rest. He kept his hands still, watching her, allowing her to be in control. She smiled shyly and crawled on her hands and knees to him. Her hair tickled his chest as she kissed the corner of his lips. Pedro covered the place with his palm.
She kissed his chest, his ribs, his navel, her pecks like a hammer against his restraint. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and sultry when she placed her lips around his cock.
Pedro’s gaze lingered over her glistening lips, and he caressed her hair, pulling it away from her face. The wicked angel drove him mad with her innocent explorations. His heart pounded in his neck, and his breathing rasped against his throat.
“Ana, enough,” he groaned.
She licked him one last time and released him. The cold air brushed over the sensitive skin.
Pedro pulled her atop him until she straddled him, her heat brushing against his erection. He wanted to see her, to sense her, to be attuned to her while giving her this last piece of himself.
