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Madeline panicked. Before he could take one more step, she bolted, running
through the French doors and down the steps to her garden, heading for the maze. In her
clumsy skirts and wretched corsets and panniers, she was hobbled. On a good day, in the
right clothes, she might have outrun him in a footrace. Not today.
And it was a race. He loped behind her, as graceful as a tiger, confident of his
conquest, noiseless but for the faint clink of coins in his coat pocket hitting against his
thigh. He didn t call out, and Madeline had no idea what he would do when he caught
her . or what she would do.
She ducked into the maze.
Chapter Thirteen
Kiss me, dear, before my dying,
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
John Dryden
The day was warm and overcast. When Madeline turned into the maze, its silence
engulfed her, and for one instant, she paused to catch her breath. A pain filled her chest,
part feat, part exhilaration she was on her own ground now. In the maze, she could
outsmart him.
She took the left side, for it was more complicated, and Lucien could not know it
well enough to find her if she chose her hiding place well. She d find a place and wait
him out. Soon or late, he d tire of this strange chase, and she would sneak back to the
house and hide in her room.
And pray Charles would soon return to Whitethorn.
Lifting her skirts, she kicked out of her slippers and started off at a quick run once
again. She realized very quickly how loud the sound of her clothing was, brushing here
and there against the shrubbery, the panniers rattling in their wooden harness; even her
jewelry jingled on her arms. She halted, and began to move very silently through the
narrow paths. Behind her, she heard Lucien call out her name, teasing and assured. He
thought he had her trapped.
At the first claire-voie, she eased up to it and peeked around the edge and a
sword went through her heart, for there he was, waiting, as if he d known she d look for
him. A cunning smile curled his beautiful mouth, giving his eyes an exaggerated slant
like a big cat. He simply stood there, three small turns of the maze from her, watching
her.
She ducked down and passed below the clairevoie, and lifted her skirts to run
again. Lucien began to whistle, and the easy sound twisted and floated and broke eerily
as she turned this way and that, deliberately taking a wrong turn into a dead end with a
hidden bench and small garden of herbs. Ducking behind the wall, she pulled her skirts in
tight and sat on the ground, forcing herself to breathe as silently as possible.
He would not find this place, she was sure. Not even Juliette knew how to find it
consistently. It was Madeline s own, hidden and cool, down a singularly slim path.
In a singsong voice, still teasing, Lucien called, "Oh, Madeline, where are you,
love?" His voice carried easily, and it was impossible to tell by the sound of it just where
he was. Not far away, but not very close yet either. "Come out, come out where ever you
are!"
She hugged her knees. And waited.
Lucien circled through and through, wandering clear to the center the first time
before he doubled back and more carefully sought Madeline s secret spots. He followed
the intricate turns in and back, whistling, calling out, teasing her. There was no response.
He had not really expected one.
By the third time through, there was a kind of madness in his blood. His
frustration grew. He started back in and suddenly realized he would not find her by
making noise.
He fell silent. This time he turned at each opening, following it clear to its dead
end each time, peeking behind the false walls to the benches behind, taking care to keep
his step light. Again, he wandered to the center of the maze without finding her, and with
a curse, he slapped his thigh. Where the devil had she gone?
Faintly, he heard a meow, and lifted his head to listen. It came again, a faint,
demanding cry. He smiled. Moving back the way he d come, he stopped periodically to
listen for the meow. It got louder, closer, the plaintive, chatty tomcat making
conversation with the woman who cared for him.
At last, behind an illusory wall, he found an opening he d never before seen.
Stepping as lightly as he was able, he moved down the path. The meow, satisfied now,
rattled out. And at the end of the path, Lucien spied a swatch of pale blue fabric her
skirt.
In the path, he stopped, then doubled back the way he d come and edged along
the parallel way until he could hear her breath on the other side of the living green wall.
Through dense leaves he could see tiny swaths of her dress, a blur of darkness that he
knew to be her hair.
Quietly, firmly, he quoted,
" As the empty bee, that lately bore
Into the common treasure all her store
Deflowering the fresh virgins of the spring,
So will I rifle all the sweets that dwell
In my delicious paradise, and swell
My bag with honey, drawn forth by the power
Of fervent kisses. "
He heard her quick, sobbing breath a sharp intake of panic. But to her credit, she
didn t speak. He smiled, opening his hands to touch the leaves that separated them.
Quickly, for he wished to take her by surprise, he ran to the end, and down the short path
to the hidden bench. Deliberately, he put his foot on her hem, and spoke from behind her,
"I ll seize the rosebuds in their perfumed bed,
The violet knots, like curious mazes spread
O er all the garden, taste the ripened cherry,
The warm, firm apple, tipped with coral berry."
A soft, tiny cry sounded in the stillness behind his low recitation. Lucien peeked
around the wall. Madeline clutched her skirts in her fists, and her eyes were closed, her
head thrown back so that the whole of her white, smooth throat showed. Her breast rose
and fell quickly, and he knew she was as aroused as he.
With a deft, practiced movement, he captured her in his arms, finding only token
protest. He pulled her into his lap, against that roused and aching place, and she molded
to him as if she were made to his specifications. "I ve come for my kiss, Madeline," and
opened his mouth over the sweet plumpness of her innocent lips.
She gave a low cry, the sound deep in her throat, and her mouth opened to his, hot
and fluid, her tongue seeking his. Lucien pulled her closer and groaned.
He held her, his hands open against her long, slim back, and kissed her. Kissed
her as he d been dreaming of kissing, wet and sliding kisses, deft and nibbling, slow and
twirling kisses. His head was filled with music, clear and distinct, as it never was unless
he was drunk. But perhaps he was drunk now on Madeline, on the nectar of her flesh, on
the smell of her hair, on the tiny aroused sounds that fell from her lips. He felt swept from
himself, and he spoke her name, and the word was ragged. He kissed her collarbone and
the upper swell of her creamy breasts. He opened his eyes.
She looked at him with the dazed hunger of a woman at her limit. His breath was
unsteady and he found he could speak no more but only gaze up at her face, and slowly
he opened his hands and touched her breasts lightly, curling his fingers over the cool
flesh above her bodice. They gasped together, surprised at the sensation. Lucien didn t
move for fear she d bolt, only touched her there and looked at her. He told himself it was
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