Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 11

Catherine loved the Great Hall, and tonight she had braved the winds and asked Cullen to help with the massive doors so that she could spend some time with the tapestries. When Vincent found her, she was running her fingers over the delicate golden threads at the edge of one of her favorites.

"Catherine."

She turned, feeling the familiar tingle of joy. "You found me."

"Always," he said, coming to stand beside her.

"Father finally let me give up that awful sling." Her arm was stiff and sore, but at least she could move it again, though Father had lectured her at length about the need to be careful. "It feels so good to be free of it."

"He was only doing what was best for you," Vincent said mildly. "Does the injury give you much pain?"

She shook her head. "It's getting better."

"Good." He gave her a quizzical look. "Tell me, Catherine. What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see the tapestries again. They’re so beautiful."

He gazed at them for a moment. "They are breathtaking."

"Yes." She ran her fingers over the woven figures. "There's such turbulence in them," she said. "So much life." She dropped her hand to her side. "Do you think they were happy?"

"Yes," he said. "I think they were." They were silent for a long minute, their eyes on the exuberant tapestry. When Vincent sighed she looked up, noticing the sadness in his eyes for the first time.

"What is it?"

"There is something that I must tell you."

She touched his arm, almost afraid to hear what he was about to say. "What?"

"There was an outsider in the tunnels today. A woman."

"Where?"

"Beneath your building."

Catherine's heart sank. Somehow she'd never considered the possibility that this would happen. "Did you see her?"

He nodded. "Is it possible that something she found in your home led her to seek the threshold?"

"You don’t think she stumbled upon the tunnels by accident?"

"This is the second time she has been seen."

"You didn’t tell me—"

"I didn’t wish to worry you. And I had hoped that she would not return."

A chill ran down Catherine's spine as she thought about strangers going through her things. She should have known it would happen, or guessed it at least. It was standard procedure in missing persons cases. But what had she left behind that had brought a stranger into the tunnels?

"The invitation," she said. "Damn it." She folded her arms across her stomach. "It was one the children made. I kept it on my desk because it always made me smile." She wanted to hold it in her hands again now, to run her fingers over the simple frame with its cheerful crayoned picture. The thought brought back memories of a happier, less complicated time. "What will you do now?"

"What we must." Vincent turned to gaze out across the empty chamber. "I've ordered that section of the tunnels sealed. Mouse is seeing to it now."

Sealed. Yet another piece of who she was, who she had been, gone. "They keep taking things away." She had already lost her baby and her home, her friends and her career. Now they were threatening her here. The one place she had thought she would always be safe. "Will it never end?"

"Yes," Vincent said. "It will end." There was a determination in his voice that made Catherine look at him in concern.

He seemed tired, she thought. And older somehow, as though the weight of the worries he carried was wearing him down. But what worried her most was the anger she sensed in him, the thirst for vengeance that lurked just beneath the surface of his calm demeanor.

Abruptly, she shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She wanted to talk about happier things, simpler times. She wanted, just for a moment, to make the outside world, with all its problems and terrors, disappear.

"I was thinking about Winterfest," she said. "Was it lovely?"

"No." There was an edge of remembered loneliness in his voice. "Because you weren't there to share it with me."

She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her waist, and for few minutes they shared the quiet solace of each other's company.

"I thought about it sometimes. I thought about the wind, and the way it blew through your hair, and I thought about how we passed the flame from candle to candle until even the darkest corners of the room glowed with their warmth. And I thought about the children. I remembered the way their eyes sparkled, and the way they laughed and played, and how nobody yelled at them, nobody told them they must be quiet and well-mannered."

"Did somebody yell at you, Catherine? When you were a child?"

She shook her head against his shoulder. "When I got too excited my mother would take me aside and remind me gently that I was a young lady," she said. "And I tried, Vincent. I tried to be good, but sometimes I just couldn't help myself."

"And what did you do then?" Vincent asked with gentle humor. "When you couldn't help yourself?"

"I climbed trees." She smiled at the memory. "Or I'd get all wet and muddy playing in the creek. It made my mother shake her head and sigh a lot, but Dad just laughed."

She slipped away from him, down the rough stone steps to the wide floor. Vincent followed a few feet behind, his cloak rustling faintly. She kept going until the walls were swallowed up by shadows and all she could see was Vincent as he came toward her, his body backlit by the flickering torches.

The space around them felt huge in the darkness, as though it went on forever. And from a distance the music came to her again. "I can still hear it." Ignoring a twinge of pain, she stretched out her arms, let her head fall back, and turned in a slow circle. "Even now, I can still hear the music."

"Yes." Vincent tilted his head, listening. "A waltz, perhaps."

"It's lovely." Her body moved to the gentle tune that played in her mind as she remembered that other magical night, and the joy and hope that had resonated between them. And then Vincent was there, and he took her in his arms, and they were dancing together, just like they had on that long ago night.

He led her in a wide circle, his steps sure and graceful, and she felt like she was floating, as though his touch was the only thing keeping her from drifting up into the darkness. He swung her out, away from him, until he held her by just the tips of her fingers, and for a breathless moment she thought she might spin away from him completely. But then he caught her and pulled her back into his arms and she laughed, her voice echoing off the high stone walls as he smiled down at her.

Around and around they went, moving to music only the two of them could hear.

And then gradually the unheard melody slowed and the space between them narrowed until his arms were wrapped around her and their bodies brushed together with each step. She flattened her hands against his back, pressing in against the muscles that rippled beneath her palms, unwilling to allow even the smallest breath of air to separate them. He laid his cheek against her hair, and it was a long time before either of them realized that the music had faded away and they were standing, still and alone, in the very center of the chamber.

Catherine lifted her head, her eyes finding his in the shadows. In his gaze she saw the same warmth and love that she always had, but this time . . . this time there was something else, too. Something more. Something that made her pulse leap and her breath catch in her throat.

All at once she became aware of the intimate touch of his body against hers—the lean strength of his thighs, the press of his hips, and the solid wall of his chest. She felt the rose in its soft leather pouch, caught between them now, a tangible reminder of their love. But it was a reminder she didn't need.

He kept one arm around her waist and shifted his other hand to the nape of her neck. The pad of his thumb brushed against the sensitive skin just behind her ear, and had he not been holding her so closely, her legs might have given way, the muscles melting under the heat of his touch.

Her gaze shifted to his mouth, and she tried to remember how to breathe.

"Catherine—" His muted voice was hoarse with need.

She reached up to touch his lips with the tip of one trembling finger. "Shh—"

She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it so desperately it was all she could do to keep from pulling his head down to hers. But she wouldn't demand something for herself that he wasn't prepared to give. His fears were real, and born of his love for her, and only he could decide when he was ready to move beyond them. And so she tried desperately to suppress the heat that curled in her stomach and calm the eager pounding of her heart.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, his chest expanding against hers, and for a single heartbreaking moment she thought he might pull away.

But he didn't.

Instead he shifted, gathering her closer still. And then he was bending over her, and the something different in his eyes resolved itself into pure male desire just . . . before . . . he kissed her.

It started out slow, with the sweet, soft touch of discovery, of newness. But as her heart surged and she tangled her fingers in his hair, no longer denying her body's demands, he explored the juncture of her lips, asking a question without words.

She welcomed him with a low moan, opening to him, captivated by him. His hair brushed across her face, and his lips teased at hers, and his hands roamed up and down her back, pressing into the hollow between her shoulder blades and then shifting low along her spine so that she couldn't fail to notice his own rising excitement.

She pushed closer, instinctively seeking to fit her body more fully against his, and he tensed in response, running his tongue across her teeth and along the soft recesses of her cheeks until she thought she might explode with need, the desire pulsing through her like a living thing—the fierce, driving, demanding force of it arcing along her spine.

Her fingers left his hair to slide across his shoulders, to stroke the warm, rough skin of his neck, to trace the strong line of his jaw. The sound he made in response, somewhere between a purr and a growl, pulled her even deeper into his heat.

When he dragged his mouth away from hers to trail small, nibbling kisses over her cheeks and eyelids, she whispered his name, calling him back to her warmth. His breath was harsh, uneven, and his arm shifted from her waist, moving higher, until his fingers brushed against the underside of her breast and drew an urgent plea from her throat.

She wanted more, so much more, and she knew that he could sense it through their bond. She felt it in him, too, the driving need to join their bodies as their hearts were already joined. But in another instant he tore his mouth away from hers, his head dropping back as he heaved in great gulps of air. Abruptly, he spun toward the steps, his cloak brushing against her legs as he strode across the chamber.

She swayed on her feet, unsteady and bereft as she stared after him, struggling to bring her chaotic emotions under control. "Vincent?"

He didn't answer. He was leaning against the railing now, head down, shoulders heaving, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Suddenly the Great Hall felt vast and cold, and the distance separating her from him seemed like miles rather than feet, but she set out anyway, a pilgrim crossing the desert.

"Talk to me, Vincent." She spoke softly. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I don't . . ." He shuddered when she reached his side and touched his arm. "I don't know what's happening."

"What do you mean?"

He straightened, turning to look at her, and she saw that though his breathing was already returning to normal, he was still tense. "I'm no stranger to desire, Catherine. It's been my constant companion almost since we met."

His words sent tendrils of heat curling along her spine again. She swallowed hard. "But?"

"But always in the past I could control those feelings! Now . . ." He dropped his eyes. "I fear I may not be able to protect you for much longer."

She reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm. "I don't want you to protect me from those feelings, Vincent." Beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed. "I haven't wanted it for a very long time."

His eyes came up to meet hers. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she said, absolutely certain of it. "You can't."

He blew out a breath, shaking his head. "Catherine—"

"No." She shook her head, interrupting him. "Please, Vincent. You have to trust me." She stepped closer and lifted her hands to his face. "I know you're afraid, and I won't rush you, but I won't let you pull away from me, either. Not now. Not ever again."

She pulled his head down to hers, kissing him tenderly, showing him with her touch that he was safe with her, and she with him.

For a moment, he didn't respond. Then he groaned, and his arms came around her, and he trailed a series of kisses across her cheeks and eyes. It was a gentle caress, without the passionate overtones of their earlier encounter, and afterwards she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest.

"I love you." His voice trembled, and she tightened her arms around him.

"Hold me."

He did, cradling the back of her head with one hand and lowering his other arm to her waist. He rested his head against the top of hers, and she felt safe, and protected, and cherished.

It was a long time before he eased away from her and reached for her hand.

"It's late," he said softly. "You should rest."

She resisted the urge to tell him that she needed him more than she needed sleep. She had to let him find the way at his own pace.

"I am a little tired," she said.

He nodded. "Come. I'll walk you to your chamber."