As if by mutual agreement, we remained silent, hands clasped as our driver returned to our hotel. In the elevator, no longer able to resist, I kissed Angelique passionately. We were both breathless by the time it stopped on our floor. The moment I shut our door to our suite, I captured her mouth in another searing kiss. She clung to me, molding her body to mine. I wanted her, needed her, and Angelique, sensing my desperation, slowed our kisses and led me into the bedroom. She undressed me and then herself, and, loosening her hair, lay on the bed.
“I’m yours, Adam,” she said, holding out her hand. I claimed her possessively, and some considerable time later, as I caressed her back, Angelique broke our silence about the night's events.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What for? I should be apologizing,” I countered.
“I’m sorry the special night you planned was spoiled.”
“Darling, it wasn’t spoiled, it changed, and I’m sorry for being jealous.”
“You know you have nothing to worry about, don’t you, Adam?” Angelique implored, and when I nodded, continued. “I don’t have feelings for Luke… well, other than regret for leaving Leipzig the way I did. He deserved better.”
“You were young and distraught, Angelique. We all do foolish things when we’re young. And I do know you love me—it’s just...I’ve never felt jealous before. I didn’t think I was capable until you entered my life. I love you so much, but that doesn't excuse my behavior,” I confessed.
“I understand, m’fhíorghrá,” she tenderly stroked my cheek. “If our roles were reversed, I’d probably have felt the same way. You’re not alone in fighting those feelings, you know,” she added more lightly and explained how she'd felt when seeing photographs of me with Lisa.
“There’s no one else for me, Darling; there'll never be,” I assured her.
“I know that. Maybe one day, when we’ve been married for decades, we’ll stop feeling possessive.”
“I doubt I will,” I answered lightly, but I knew the truth in what I said.
We drifted off to sleep and I woke early, before Angelique as I almost always do. I pulled on sleep pants and wandered onto our balcony to watch the sun rise on our last morning in Paris. A while later, I ordered a breakfast tray and, when it arrived, carried it to the bedroom. I woke my wife with a soft kiss. She stretched and smiled lazily. “Good morning; how long have you been awake?” she asked in a husky, sleep-induced voice.
“Long enough to order breakfast. Would you like tea?”
“Please. Do you mind if I visit the bathroom? I must look a mess.”
“You could never,” I said. “Don’t bother getting dressed,” I added, handing her my shirt from the night before. “I like you naked and sleep-rumpled, “ I said as her eyes met mine. Color suffused her cheeks, and I was still smiling as I poured tea. She returned and crawled back into bed, still wearing my unbuttoned shirt. I served her tea and poured myself a cup of coffee, then watched as she sipped.
“Ready for something to eat?” I asked.
“Mmm, please. What do we have?”
“Croissant, pain au chocolat, or toast with honey, and fresh fruit for after if you want,” I rattled off.
“Toast with honey,” she decided, and I prepared a slice. I tore my croissant, popped a piece in my mouth, and then watched a dollop of honey drip off her toast onto her breast and slowly slide down and over a rosy nipple. She moved to wipe it, but I beat her to it. I clasped her hand, leaned over and licked the sweet trickle, instantly aroused by the low moan she uttered as my lips closed around silky flesh.
“I didn’t think you could taste any sweeter,” I said, smiling up at her beautifully flushed face.
I lifted the plate her lap, replaced it on the tray, and set the crystal honey container on the bedside table. I helped Angelique out of my shirt, spread it under her torso, and stepped out of my pants. I lifted the dipper from the pot and drizzled honey onto her full, parted lips. I licked and sucked on her mouth before plunging my tongue into its sweet warmth. We moaned in unison, and I proceeded, then, to dribble honey onto first one breast, then the other before removing it in the same way. We were both frantic with want by the time I poised the spoon poised Angelique’s naked sex.
She gasped as it dribbled between her lips. “Watch me,” I commanded when her lids closed and repeatedly ran my tongue over her bud and through her folds. I saw her watching. “Ambrosia,” I said, lowering my head once more. Angelique tangled her hands in my hair, her grip tightening as I brought her to a shuddering climax.
Later, in the bath, with her nestled against my chest, she turned and, spreading her body over mine, kissed my lips. “I want to do that to you when we get back home,” she promised.
"Can’t wait,” I said, lifting her to straddle me.
We left Paris later that morning for London, aboard the legendary Orient Express. We sat in our cabin and later in the dining car to enjoy a delicious meal while marveling at the countryside on the journey that marked the end of the second week of our honeymoon.
In London, we boarded a plane and arrived at Waterford Castle late in the evening. We had dinner in our room, and that night, ensconced in our four-poster bed in a castle originating back to the twelfth century, Angelique, for the second time, became emotional about being in Ireland, close to where her grandfather and his parents had been born.
She’d learned about our destination on the Orient-Express. “So our next week will be in London?” Angelique asked.
“We’ll spend our last weekend there,” I said.
“Weekend?” I thought we weren’t flying home until the thirtieth?”
“We are,” I smoothed the little furrow between her brows.
“We’re spending a week in Ireland,” I revealed and watched, delighted, as the information registered. Angelique's eyes widened before brimming with tears.
“Where,” she whispered.
“Waterford Castle, but we’ll, hopefully, if you’d like, spend most of our time in the two villages where your Mom and I discovered the Bains settled when they arrived from Scotland.”
“Oh, Adam, Dad always wanted to visit…” her voice caught, and embraced her. “I know, Darling, and now you can realize that dream for him.”
With her cuddled in my arms, I revealed what we’d learned about the Bain family. Angelique was as sad and disappointed as Grace and I had been to learn that no direct relatives remained in the area.
“I’m just glad to be visiting,” she decided in the end.
We spent the first day familiarizing ourselves with the castle and its grounds. Angelique gasped and then held her breath when we spotted a young deer. She squeezed my hand as the delicate creature, poised, ready to flee, stared back at us. It must have recognized that we posed no threat because it turned slowly and wandered back into the trees. Even in that short time, and exposed only to the castle grounds, we could see why Ireland is called the Emerald Isle. I’d never seen so much and such a rich color green. We enjoyed the day, but I sensed Angelique’s anxiety and excitement to walk in the places her family had.
We traveled approximately forty minutes to the seaside town of Tramore, where we wandered the beach and visited the small, nearby amusement park. We lunched in a pub and talked to locals, but none remembered any Bains. We learned that Tramore had been a fishing village until the mid-eighteen hundreds, before the arrival of the railway. Angelique wondered aloud whether some of her ancestors might have been fisherman. “Most likely if they were here then, lass,” she was told.
Next, we visited the Metal Man, an enormous cast iron structure erected to warn sailors of the dangerous shallow coastal waters. We sat on the cliff top, staring out at the ocean separating Ireland and Britain. We mused about the Bains who might have sailed and fished the waters.
Angelique loved Tramore, but Ballyduff called to her. The undulating green of the gently rolling hills, the Blackwater River, she said, made her feel like she’d come home. We wandered through the place and found an old cemetery. At Angelique’s urging, we explored, and, as if preordained, we found several graves bearing the Bain name. Four were familiar to both Angelique and me. My information had come from Grace, but Angelique remembered Rory mentioning the names. Rory and Annis Bain, her great-grandparents rested side by side, and in another, nearby, section, we discovered the final resting places of her grandmother Ceit and her grandfather, Conor, who died eighteen months after his wife. Neither of us recognized the other Bains' names, but Angelique was saddened that three belonged to children less than two years old; two passed away before they’d lived a week.
“Sadly, many babies died in those days, Darling,” I consoled her.
She wanted to return with flowers, and I promised we would. And that’s what we did earlier today, on our second and last trip to Ballyduff before we leave in the morning. I’d managed, since our last visit and with the help of the local priest, to arrange for someone to tend the Bain graves in exchange for an ongoing donation to his parish. So, after Angelique and I placed her flowers, I told her about those arrangements. She thanked me tearfully I assured her there was no need. “They’re my family now too,” I said.
On our last visit, we learned that the local dance school would be performing traditional dancing today, so we made our way to the little square we’d been told about. When one of the organizers called for people from the audience to participate, I encouraged Angelique.
“Come on, Mrs. Thorne, let's see just how Irish you are. Anyone can eat colcannon,” I teased. She pouted those provocative lips, and then lifted her chin proudly. Seamus, the elderly local, who’d sat beside us and befriended us through conversation, laughed as she lightly kissed my cheek then poked out her tongue before joining the other volunteers. She caught on quickly, of course, and effortlessly fit in with the seasoned Irish dancers.
The music ends, and I watch Angelique, smiling widely, speak to the dancers on either side of her before returning to me. Her face lights up with the most dazzling smile.
“Well?” she challenges as I stand to greet her. I cup her exquisite face in both hands. 'Onlookers be damned,' I think, as I lower my mouth to hers. She blushes deeply when the crowd around us applauds.
“Luck of the Irish,” I tell her. In the car on our way back to the castle, I admit that she is, indeed, Irish.
In bed, later that night, Angelique lets out a wistful sigh. “Our honeymoon’s nearly over. It’s been amazing. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better one; thank you, M’fhíorghrá.”
“It’s been more than even I imagined, and I planned it. But Darling, it's not the places we’ve visited or the things we’ve seen that’s made it memorable. It’s been sharing it with you. And Angelique, our honeymoon will never be over; not until one of us is forced to leave this earth.”
Her eyes glisten. “It will start again when we meet up,” she whispers, pressing her lips to mine.