Merlyn's Magic by Carole Mortimer

dislike of Brandon Carmichael she would still have liked to
have played the part of his wife in the film.
    'Maybe if I went and talked to Carmichael—'
    'I wouldn't if I were you,' Merlyn advised. 'He gave me
the impression he would enjoy beating you to a pulp for even daring to
suggest making the film in the first place!'
    'This is ridiculous! You—'
    'Merlyn, you shouldn't be walking about,' a scandalised
Anne scolded her as she barged unannounced into the room. 'You only got
out of bed this morning,' she fussed as she manoeuvred Merlyn into the
bedroom. 'She's been very ill, Mr Drake.' She turned to include
Christopher in her censure.
    'It was my fault, Anne,' Merlyn tried to explain as she
was firmly pushed down on the bed, her slippers removed and the covers
pulled up to her chin before she could protest. 'Christopher and I were
just—'
    'It's time for your rest,' Anne cut in dismissively, her
tone brooking no argument.
    Merlyn grimaced at Christopher over the top of the
bedclothes. 'I told you, I'm sure she was in the army in another life!'
    Anne blushed prettily at the rebuke. 'The doctor said you
weren't to overdo things to start with,' she reminded Merlyn of the
instructions the kindly man had given her this morning when he called
as he had every other morning since she had become ill.
    'I don't think he meant you to take him quite this
literally.' Merlyn struggled to sit up as the other woman tucked the
bedclothes in so tightly she could barely move.
    'I think I'll go and join your husband for that afternoon
tea,' Christopher put in hastily at Anne's mutinous expression, making
good his escape before her wrath fell on him.
    'Coward!' Merlyn glared at the door as he closed it behind
him.
    'He's very handsome, isn't he?' Anne remarked casually as
she stood watch over Merlyn as she drank down the fresh lemonade she
had brought in for her.
    'Says the woman married to the handsomest man for three
counties!' Merlyn smiled.
    Anne blushed again. 'James is gorgeous…'
    'Even if he does have a sergeant-major for a wife!' She
eyed the other woman mockingly.
    Anne giggled. 'I'm getting into practice for when the
children come along!'
    'Are they imminent?' Merlyn asked with interest.
    'Not too imminent,' answered Anne mischievously. 'To tell
you the truth, we're having too much fun!'
    Merlyn chuckled too. 'Still at the rehearsal stage, hm?'
she teased.
    'Oh no,' Anne denied, a satisfied curve to her full lips.
'We prefer to think of it as practising; we already have the act
perfected!'
    Merlyn watched the other woman as she pulled the curtains
closed in preparation for her taking a nap, envying Anne her wonderful
husband and happy marriage. She had only shared the sensual closeness
she could see in Anne's glowing eyes once in her life, and the man
hadn't shared that closeness with
her
.
    For all that she had protested at being put to bed in that
peremptory way, she sank back weakly against the pillows once Anne had
left the darkened room, the effort of getting up to greet Christopher
having tired her more than she had expected or realised. Her eyes
fluttered closed within seconds of her relaxing.
    She was having the most wonderful dream, that warm ache
once more making her limbs feel like jelly, just wanting to stay like
that as she felt the moistness of that mouth moving over her body.
    'Rand…?' she groaned, unable to wake from the
deep sleep to see if this were dream or reality.
    'I'm here, Merlyn,' a soft voice soothed. 'Give to me!'
    Even now those knowledgeable lips were tugging on the
aching hardness of her nipple, its twin being caressed in the same way
with the gentle flick of a thumb-pad.
    Her breathing became ragged as those lips moved down the
flat contours of her stomach, teeth nibbling at the inside of her
thighs before closing with erotic intent on the seductive core of her
womanhood.
    Tension filled her body as she felt the first flick of
that tongue, the movement becoming a rhythm that made her writhe