Page 83 of The Phantom Duke
Damien lost himself in the climb until he had reached a point halfway up, where a nexus was formed of thick limbs that had merged with each other over the years. At that point, he carefully put Maria down, sitting her with her back to the trunk.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
Maria did so. The look of sudden wonder was enough to make the entire enterprise worthwhile. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in green-tinted chinks. It was a sylvan wonderland ofbark, moss and leaf. The air was thick with the life of the tree, the sound of its whispered conversation with the woods around it. She laughed, lifting her head to gaze up into the maze of smaller branches that continued to the crown.
“What is this?” Maria whispered.
Damien settled himself against the trunk, as thick and solid as a Roman column. The nest of limbs on which they sat felt as reliable as the earth. There was no sense that they sat twenty feet off the ground.
“An oak tree. Maybe the oldest on my land. It predates the house for certain. Possibly most of London, too. I used to look out of its branches in the winter and try to imagine what it had seen. Was the city built by the Saxons? The Romans? It always managed to put things into perspective. When my father was being particularly cruel, it reminded me that it would pass, that I would outlast him.”
“It gave you hope,” Maria said.
Damien nodded, resting his head against the trunk and closing his eyes.
“I wish I’d had a tree like at Sunspire. I had no hope except my friends.”
Damien’s head turned to her, and he snorted.
“What hope are other people? People are the problem.”
“For someone who chooses to isolate himself. I do not. This tree never has. It could not survive alone. It would not have reached its grand old age if it was alone,” Maria said.
“A philosopher. You astound me.”
“And you do not. You mock anything that strikes too close to your heart,” Maria said quickly.
Damien’s head lifted sharply, his mouth opened. She gazed back, unafraid. His head went back against the tree, anger swallowed.
“The fallacy in your argument is that the tree is not capable of cursing anyone who looks upon it unmasked. That forces isolation. But you have shown me trust. I will, too,” Damien said. “I will trust that you do not seek to get close enough to sink a dagger into my back. And that you will allow me to protect you from my affliction.”
When Maria shifted to look at him, he raised a hand.
“The dagger I refer to is metaphorical. I do not believe you plotted to assassinate me. I speak of the inherent weakness of… attachments. However, the affliction is not a metaphor. The curse is very real, and I will not lose you to it. “
“Everything is a trade. Weakness for pleasure, for contentment,” she said.
Damien was looking at her now, eyes sharp, taking in every line of her face, drinking it in.
“It seems like a high price,” he whispered.
A bird flew from above, through the canopy and out the other side. Maria pointed.
“See that? It knows that the higher it flies, the more vulnerable it is to hawks or lightning or just becoming lost and exhausted and falling from the sky. It knows that it can avoid such things by remaining safe in its nest. Clipping its own wings. But what manner of life is that? Safe but…”
“Dull,” Damien replied.
“Empty.”
“I thought I was content with my nest. My clipped wings,” Damien said, shifting against the tree to face her.
“And now?” Maria turned to face him, leaning towards him.
Damien’s answer was to kiss her. It was the sudden, violent movement of a striking viper. Maria was caught in mid-breath, a breath that became a gasp, a hot puff of air against his mouth that sent his blood roaring in his ears. Her body froze and then melted as his arm went around her. Maria’s pliant body pressed against his, her warmth bleeding into his own body.
Damien felt the melting, felt the surrender and welcomed it. He leaned back against the tree, and she leaned into him. Her lips were soft and full, beautifully feminine in every aspect from touch to taste. Damien kissed her deeply, intoxicated by every breathy moan that tore between her lips as they kissed one another again and again.
He savored the experience, breathed Maria in, absorbed her through touch. Her curves were so smooth and soft that he could scarcely believe she was real, much less that he might deserve her. His hands explored her, mapping her with careful notes taken of every shiver, every arching of her back and shifting of her hips. He was a cartographer of sensuality, memorizing the map he made of Maria’s body through the thin fabric of her gown.
