Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night

22

Bloody brilliant, MacRieve, Bowe thought as he lay staring at the cavern ceiling. Drops of water traveled along it against gravity, before trickling down a stalactite. He exhaled. Not only hadn't he made progress with her, he'd likely deepened her hatred.

He was accustomed to doing as he pleased—and to having others do what he pleased as well. Yet when he'd wanted to talk to her more, to explain, the look in her eyes had said she'd been about to snap.

Bowe knew he shouldn't have answered as he had. Of course, she wouldn't view the situation the same as he did. But her question had caught him completely off guard. He was used to thinking along those lines but hadn't expected her to.

He should have just lied. As soon as the thought arose, he dismissed it because he didn't ever want to lie to his female. Except that she might not be his at all, and now he was farther away from the means to determine for certain.

He glanced over at her, lying on the other side of the fire with her back to him. Could Mariketa truly be a different version of Mariah? An utterly different version? Or was he seizing on reincarnation because it absolved him of guilt—for Mariah's death and for his undeniable lust for another?

The two looked nothing alike but for their ears. Mariah had been tall and lithe and so graceful, seeming to float when she walked. The petite witch rolled her hips sensuously until her every step sent blood rushing to his groin and away from his brain. For the thirtieth time tonight, he ran the heel of his palm along his shaft. He wanted to watch her walk naked to a bed he was in.

He told himself he wasn't comparing the two females to determine which was better but only to explore his reincarnation theory.

Hell, he didn't even know what he would do with a key now. Would he truly go back if he believed the witch would never live?

That was the crux of it, because if he knew for a fact that he would erase the witch, then he could be certain that she shared a soul with Mariah. And with that certainty, he could stay with the witch, even if there was a key, and there would be no guilt.

Wait. Why had he immediately decided on the witch in this situation? If he could just as easily have Mariah, wouldn't he prefer her? Mariah had been everything that was perfect.

Yet for the first time, Bowe admitted—with difficulty and reluctance—that she might not have been perfect... for him.

For most of his adult life, Bowe had said what was on his mind, and damn the consequences. Life was too long not to. But he remembered that his uttering even the mildest oaths would dismay Mariah—no matter that he and his kind had been using those words for millennia before they'd been deemed bad.

He'd often felt like he was walking on eggshells around her. He'd striven to change for her, hoping to make himself a gentleman for her. Yet some traits were just a part of his nature.

He enjoyed his bed play dirty, and like all males of his kind, he was aggressive in bed. But Mariah had been a fey princess living in the eighteen hundreds and had been stymied with a very limited sexual mind-set. She'd never been aroused by Bowe—had never desired him as he did her. Bowe had known this, for she'd made no secret of it. With her violet eyes glinting, she would stroke him under the chin as she vowed that she would be the one to tame his beastly nature.

So he'd struggled to ignore his baser urges because she would have been horrified or even fainted if he'd acted on them. The sex words he'd wanted to use he'd stifled. The places he'd wanted to kiss her he'd tried to put from his mind...

He'd never claimed her, and the one time he'd touched her between her thighs, his heart had sunk to find her utterly unaffected by his attentions. As cold as ice.

But when he'd stroked Mariketa, she'd been lush and wet, her body so ready to receive him. And the way he spoke? It aroused her. He knew the self-pleasuring witch would indulge in whatever would give them satisfaction. That night in the tomb, if he'd decided to taste her sex, she would have moaned with anticipation and spread her legs wide for him.

Maybe she hadn't been seething with power that night, but with passion, a passion stoked by him. Bowe hadn't realized until now how much Mariah's lack of desire had affected his confidence.

At once, he flushed at his uncharitable thoughts toward her. She'd been a sweet lass, and she'd had much to offer a male.

She'd been a gentle fey of royal blood and good family, and marrying her would have brought about a valuable alliance between her kind and his. Elegant Mariah had chosen him to take care of her. Out of all her royal suitors—and there were many—she'd chosen him to marry. She would've been a good mate and a caring mother.

He frowned. Except that she'd told him she hadn't wanted to have children. No matter how long he'd always looked forward to a family.

But then she hadn't been a bloody witch either.

Bowe turned to his side away from Mariketa. This confusion wasn't as racking as the constant guilt, but at least with the guilt he'd known where he stood.

He heard Mariketa stirring and recognized that her desire was building once more. She eased to her side, then over again. Oh, bloody hell, she was not furtively grazing those sensitive breasts of hers. She hurt for what he would gladly kill to give her.

He palmed his shaft through his jeans yet again, hissing in an agonized breath. One hundred and eighty years had passed since he'd been brought to come by another. Not ten feet from him, a trembling bundle of lust in the form of a fantasy lay aching for a male's touch.

How much more could he take?