Page 1 of Master of Paradise

He had waited so long, four years to be exact, but now the waiting was no more.

He reached across the bed and gathered her close against his powerful body.

She came eagerly.

The privacy of the big bed formed a delicious cocoon about them, shutting out the world and everyone in it, save this pair who were about to make love.

He slipped the thin gown off her shoulders and down her body, his mouth following its descent until he tasted the luscious breasts, all velvet cream and rosy pink in their swelling perfection.

Her silken thighs opened willingly to his hands as they explored the secret valley, and his shaft throbbed with the pent-up torture of the long denial.

She was trembling beneath him.

Small incoherent cries filled his ears and his nostrils flared with the intoxicating scent of her.

She reached her mouth up to his in a slow, soft kiss that began with a rich warmth, then rapidly changed to a burning, fiery blaze that threatened to consume them in its intensity.

Poised above her, his hands shook as they caressed the soft curves, now quivering with anticipation that matched the passion he felt.

His voice was hoarse with his desire as he whispered love words against her ear.

He could wait no longer; if he did, he would die with agony.

Suddenly he felt a shimmering, dissolving, as she moved away from him, out of his reach.

"No!" he cried sharply.

His vision was clouded by a dark veil, then it brightened to a red mist.

The mist thinned and separated and he shot up from the pillows, fully awake, as the dream dissolved and evaporated like mist on a summer morn.

He took a great gulp of air and tore the clinging bed sheet from his naked torso.

As the morning air cooled the powerful throbbing of his body, he stretched his arms beneath his head and let out a long, slow breath.

He gazed up at the ceiling where the morning light sketched a pattern of dappled sunshine and realized that this was his wedding day.

As every bridegroom since the beginning of time, he experienced one moment of doubt.

He crushed it instantly.

He was doing the right thing.

He had made the right choice.

He would be master of his own fate unless the Gods were laughing at him; playing with him.

This day would culminate a four-year period that had changed his world, his life totally.

When had it begun? When had the Fates stepped in to alter the course of his life? Four years were swept aside like four seconds, as his mind winged back to that blazing October afternoon in 1856...

Among the men laboring beneath the weight of the massive masonry stones, one back stood out from the rest.

It was browner, broader, and stronger; it was also naked.

The muscles and sinews, under the weight of the massive stones, stood out in bold, bulging beauty.

The rest of the magnificent body matched the back in its physical perfection.

The corded column of the neck flowed smoothly into wide shoulders.

The rippling muscles of the chest were covered by a dark mat of curling hair.

A single dark line of hair ran down, straight as an arrow, to his navel, and even beyond when his breeches did not cover him, across his belly and into that other thick mass of black curls that covered his groin.

His six-foot frame was hard, his ribs lean and his whole body glowed with a healthy bronze tan, covered at the moment with a fine film of sweat that made him glisten.

Nicholas Peacock gloried in physical exertion, especially with the warm sun playing over his muscles.

"Christ lad, give us a minute t' catch our breath," the head gardener complained, over-familiar with Lord Peacock's firstborn.

"Rome wasn't built in a day, ye know!" He watched Nick's face to see if he appreciated this fine piece of wit.

Lord Peacock had a passion for his gardens, and his latest fancy was an 'authentic Italian ruin' to set off to perfection some valuable marble statuary he had just imported.

Startling white teeth flashed in the tanned face as Nicholas's ready smile appeared and he said in his usual, amused way.

"Sorry Ned, I got carried away. I wanted to get it finished to surprise Father."

The head gardener winked at his underlings, who included three stablehands and two under-gardeners.

"Well Master Nick, I expect it's because y'er better fed at the big 'ouse. Ye can't do much heavy haulin' off bread an' water."

Nick threw back his head and laughed until the cords in his neck stood out. He had an easy-going nature and loved nothing better than a good laugh.

"By Christ, Ned, I don't know how you have the bare-faced effrontery to utter such cock and bullshit. I saw you with my own eyes shoot one of my father's bucks only two days past."

Ned shot a guilty look from beneath his shaggy brows over at Nick's sixteen-year-old brother to see if he had overheard their conversation. The boy sat patiently under a tree, waiting for Nicholas to finish his labors.

Nick grinned and slapped Ned's shoulder.

"Philip's all right. He won't say anything, and beside you old devil, don't think for one moment you're putting anything over on Father. I learned years ago that's an impossibility." The amused curve of his mouth lessened as he said seriously.

"Watch out for the head gamekeeper though. He's so keen, he acts as if he owns our deer park, all thousand acres of it."

Peacock Hall was a battlemented Elizabethan manor house with superb views over the deer park and the Weald of Kent, which now boasted an Italian garden, a rose garden, maze and topiary.

It housed over a million pounds worth of art treasures, including paintings by Canaletto, Verrio, and Rubens.

Peacock Hall was the showpiece of the county, reflecting the pride and joy and love that were lavished upon it.

Unaided, Nicholas lifted the last massive stone into place.

His long, brown fingers almost caressed the rough surface, admiring the natural beauty of its color and texture, then he stood back to admire his handiwork and survey the garden as a whole.

Satisfied with the afternoon's efforts, he praised the men and, unheeding, dusted his hands on his breeches, sending a sharp pang of envy through his younger brother.

Philip did not dare mess up his clothes.

His mother, Lady Pamela, expected him to be a young gentleman under all circumstances, and no other behavior was acceptable. Ever!

Nick's lucky his mother is dead, thought Philip, then flushed a vivid pink with the guilt and shame of his wicked thought.

Nicholas picked up his shirt and bade the men knock off their labors for the day. When he moved off, out of earshot, Ned shook his head and said.

"Ye can't help but like him. He never puts on airs, in spite of bein' brought up in the spoiled ways of the gentry. He's always laughing as if summat amuses him that the rest of us don't know about. Still, I shouldn't like to cross him. He's the image of Lord Peacock and we all know he's got the Devil's own temper."

Nicholas headed for the lake on the other side of the topiary. Good-naturedly, he slowed his steps to allow Philip to catch up with him.

"You don't mind my following you, do you Nicko?"

The white teeth flashed.

"To the lake, no. But I'll give you a damned good thrashing if you follow me again when I go to visit Tess."

Philip flushed uncontrollably as he recalled what he'd seen yesterday through the window of the cottage where the coachman's pretty daughter lived.

Nicholas stripped quickly, waded up to his waist, cut cleanly through the water for about a hundred yards, then turned and swam back.

The contrast between the two brothers was marked.

Nick's powerful torso was so physically mature, a stranger seeing them might have thought them father and son.

He was Philip's senior by five years, yet he looked and felt at least ten years older than the immature youthfulness of Philip.

"Nicko, did you speak to Father yet about teaching me to shoot?" Philip called.

Nick smiled his apology.

"Sorry old man, I forgot. But I promise to speak to him tonight. It's bloody shameful the way he neglects your education. I've been allowed a gun since I learned to walk! Aren't you coming in?" invited Nicholas.

The boy looked wistfully at the water.

"Mother would have a fit if she found out I'd been in the lake."

"Strip off your underdrawers so you don't get any of your clothes wet, and she'll never know," encouraged Nick, wondering what it was like to fear a parent.

"My hair...

" Philip said lamely.

"You can use my shirt to dry your hair," Nick said, wiping away the last objection. God, doesn't the boy know how to deceive a woman yet?

Nicholas tried not to stare too openly at his young brother as he slipped off his clothes, but what he saw stabbed him with a momentary pity.

Lord God, how underdeveloped Philip is.

He's still riding a pony instead of being given a stallion to control.

There's nothing better for developing strong thigh muscles than a plunging, unruly piece of horseflesh between your legs.

"I'll speak to Father about mounting you better, too.

'Tis ridiculous that you only have a pony." He noticed the boy was growing, but only taller and thinner.