Wrayth by Philippa Ballantine Page B

wasn’t going to make this easy for her—either that or he was quite without a clue. That was the problem with being the Grand Duchess; everyone was always so damned afraid to approach her. “Perhaps they would get the right impression,” she growled, and cupped his face in both of her hands. He was taller than her, so it was a strangely penitent gesture.
    He did not pull away. “I would not want you to think I was taking advantage—”
    That was the last thing he got to say, as she got on the tips of her toes and shut his mouth effectively with her lips. Merrick kissed her back with a surprising passion. When they parted she looked into his eyes. “Tomorrow we will root out this poison from the Empire. Tomorrow I will take back my brother. However, that is many hours away, and I would have something sane in my life before the insanity begins.”
    “That would be most wonderful,” he agreed, and deftly pulled the pins out of her hair. It tumbled over her shoulders and abruptly she was not the Grand Duchess, just a woman with a man she had admired and desired for months. It didn’t matter that he was a Deacon, and technically her subject. She wanted him. He wanted her.
    They kissed again in the half-light, and with their mouths still locked she guided him over to the bed, shaped like a sailing ship. It was certain no Deacon of the Order slept in anything so magnificent. Not that she was planning on allowing him anything like sleep.
    Still there was the business of her rather ornate ball gown. Members of the Order had surprisingly little experience trying to unlace a lady from such a garment. Zofiya giggled as Merrick swore and fumbled with the lacings. Finally, she yanked open her bedside drawer, and passed him a stiletto. “The lacings aren’t worth a thing to me.” When she presented her back to him, Merrick did not hesitate.
    “Who am I to argue with the Grand Duchess,” he chuckled, slipping the blade between the leather laces and slicing them away.
    The sound of them parting was delicious and arousing. Zofiya spun back to him, letting the confection of lace and satin drop to her feet. With only faint starlight and dipping candlelight to illuminate her, the Grand Duchess stood quite naked before Deacon Merrick Chambers.
    His indrawn breath was quite satisfactory. His fingersbrushed her skin, making her shiver with anticipation, but she stood still and let him examine her. Merrick’s hands traced the line of scars and bruises her training left on her. Some were old and some relatively new.
    The long scar that curved from her back around her hip was the one that made her flinch when touched.
    She didn’t really think about it anymore, having successfully shoved the darkest of her times in Delmaire firmly to the back of her mind. However, sitting on the bed, holding and touching her, Merrick looked up at Zofiya.
    “Your father did this?” She’d been a fool to forget his powers. It was so much easier to do with a Sensitive than with an Active, but she did not move his hand away.
    “I was not exactly what he expected in his children—especially his girl children,” she said as lightly as she could manage. “Finally, he had enough. So you can understand why I decided to come with my brother.” She shivered when Merrick laid his lips to the silvered line, licking it gently with his tongue.
    “Our scars are part of us,” he said, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her backward onto the bed, “but you are more than the sum of them.”
    He really was the most strange, extraordinary young man, and Zofiya felt her mood slide from the need for anger and sexual release, toward wanting to explore him more deeply.
    She stripped off his clothes as he lay on her bed, kissing her, and traced the lines of his body. He too was not without his scars, though they were smaller than hers. “Most of mine,” he confessed, “were in the practice yard at the Abbey.”
    Straddling him, Zofiya pressed her naked