Restless, heartsick, undecided, and bedeviled, she gave up the pretense of sleep and left her bed. Barefoot, wearing only a nearly transparent nightdress of cream-colored cambric, she prowled around her room. The fire had nearly died, and she added a few small logs from the pile laid to one side of the hearth, stirring and blowing on the glowing embers until the fire caught. The room was in darkness except for the shimmering of the flames as they danced and painted shadows on the walls. Pulling the wooden shutters aside, she discovered a full silvery moon high overhead. The rain had stopped but the dampness lingered, tickling Nicole’s nose as she took a deep breath.
Sighing, she turned back to her bed, knowing that sleep would not visit her this night. Sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up under her chin, her hands clasped around her ankles, she stared at the fire. What was she to do? She had no money of her own. She had no place to go. England was far away, too far to offer an immediate solution to her problem. She understood that as long as she loved Christopher Saxon there never was going to be a solution to her dilemma.
She had never stopped loving him, she admitted. Yes, she had tried to convince herself otherwise, but there was no denying that she had fooled only herself, herself and her foolish heart.
There was nothing she could see to be gained by staying except more heartache, more disillusionment. Christopher would never love her. He wanted her, she would not deny, but wanting had little to do with love, and love was what she wanted most.
She bit back a half-hysterical giggle when she thought of the expression on his face if she were to say, “Love me! Want me not only with your body, but with your heart as well. Love me, damn you!”
Lost in her own thoughts, the abrupt opening of her door caught her by surprise, and she couldn’t control the gasp that escaped her. Her startled gaze fell on Christopher as he stood reeling in the doorway.
It was obvious that he was half drunk—his hair, rakishly disheveled, spilled onto his forehead; the pristine white cravat was no longer neatly arranged; the bottle-green jacket was slung over one shoulder; the tail of his shirt was freed from the yellow pantaloons. With a wicked leer he slammed the door shut, making Nicole flinch and eye him warily. Only by the greatest control was she able to remain where she was, refusing to be intimidated by his looming presence. Every instinct called out to scramble away as he approached, but caution counseled she do nothing to antagonize him. Outwardly serene, she looked up at him and asked coolly, “What do you want, Christopher?”
A crooked grin curved his mouth. “Ah, now that is a very good question, my dear,” he replied, the words perfectly clear. He sat down on the corner of her bed, throwing the jacket on the floor, and absently beginning to take off his cravat. He said slowly, “I’ve thought about that a lot this evening. What exactly do I want?” Not looking at Nicole, he finished with the cravat, wrenched off his boots, and began to undo the shirt.
Her mouth dry, she watched as a rabbit watches a rattlesnake, fearful of moving, knowing a swift retreat was the only safety, yet frozen to the spot by the other’s mesmerizing quality. When the shirt joined the other clothing on the floor, he stood up, and as he commenced to unfasten the yellow pantaloons, some of her control broke and she croaked, “What do you think you are doing?”
Not stopping what he was doing, he glanced over at her. “Well, now,” he murmured, “that question has a direct bearing on what I want. I want you, my dear. And I think I am going to have you.”
“You’re drunk!” Nicole accused, edging away from him.
“No. You’re wrong there. I have been drinking, drinking a great deal, but I am not drunk. Besotted, mad perhaps, and filled with longing for a bewitching creature who gives me no peace”—his voice lost some of its detachment and hardened—“now that I am!”
Sliding inch by inch away from him, Nicole swallowed; she had never seen him like this before. Maybe he wasn’t drunk, as he said, but he was behaving queerly. He bent over, pulling off the pantaloons, and Nicole angled one foot toward the floor. But quick as a striking snake Christopher’s hand struck, capturing her wrist. “No,” he said quietly. “You are not going anywhere—at least not until I have finished with you.”
Her cheeks rosy with temper, she fought against the hard iron grip. “Damn you, let me go! And get out of my bedroom.” Her eyes met his, and what she read in the gold depths increased her struggle to escape him.
Unmoved by either her words or her actions, Christopher said softly, “No,” and with his other hand ripped the cambric gown from her body.
There was never any question of her escaping him, though she fought as fiercely as she was capable. Ignoring the blows she rained about his head, oblivious to the vicious movement of her knee, he simply pulled her into his arms, the thrashing of her naked body against his only adding to his heightened awareness. He found her mouth, feeding on the soft lips like a man with a long hunger to assuage, his tongue exploring and tasting the sweet wine within.
Despising herself, Nicole felt her body awaken to the sensual magic of his as he continued to kiss her. His hands caressed her. His mouth left her lips, traveling with a trail of fire down her neck to her breast, and breathlessly Nicole whispered, “Don’t, please, Christopher, don’t do this to me.”
He stopped and stared up at her, beguiled by the beautiful features so near him. “Stop?” he muttered thickly. “I cannot. You say you do not want me. But you lie, Nicole, you have always lied. If you did not want me, this would not happen.” Gently his hand caressed her breasts; the nipples, betraying her, hardened into points of pleasure. “Nor this,” he added, his hand sliding between her legs, stroking the yielding softness he found.
With a low, ashamed moan of pleasure, Nicole melted, unable and unwilling to deny that she, too, wanted the physical meeting of their bodies.
It was like the night of the thunderstorm—both submerging all their doubts and questions, reality being only the touch and caress of the other. Nothing existed except this world of warmth and softness, tenderness and savagery—love and hate.
Nicole did not deny him; her body responded as always to his touch—nor did she remain passive and merely let him have his way. She, too, wanted him, wanted that glorious release that only Christopher could give her. Once she had lost the battle against him, her hands explored the hard, muscled body sprawled next to her.
Like a wondering child discovering some enchanted land, her fingers traveled over the curiously soft hair on his chest, down across the flat, taut stomach, delighting in the way his body shivered at her touch.
“Ah, Jesus, Nicole,” he groaned, when she found the pulsating hardness of him. “You’re a witch, my love. A witch with a terrible power over me.”
He drew her next to him, his body straining against hers, his hands feverishly moving along the slender spine, fondling the gentle swell of her hips, until not content with that, he shifted their bodies so that he half lay across her, his mouth able now to taste the tempting honey of her body.
He was like a starving man at a feast, Nicole’s long-limbed, slim shape his only sustenance as hungrily his mouth burned a trail of desire down her body. Kissing the madly beating pulse at the base of her throat, his lips slid down to her breast; his teeth nibbling on the thrusting nipples. One hand tangled in the burnished fire of her hair, the other caressed and kneaded her flat stomach, tantalizing her, teasing her, not reaching where she was most hungry for his probing touch.
She was aflame with desire, too long denied his possession and driven by an emotion as old as the world; her body betrayed her longing by the sensual motions she made, her back arching to meet Christopher’s hand, her hips twisting helplessly in erotic rhythms.
Christopher slid his body over hers, slipping easily between her thighs, his knees holding her legs outstretched. But he did not take her, nor did his mouth reach for hers again; instead his lips traveled lingeringly down her smooth skin, past her stomach, filling her with a giddy anticipation as the warm mouth slipped lower
and lower until…
Nicole’s body leaped with stunned pleasure when his lips found the delicate silken flesh between her thighs, his hands lifting her to meet his searching mouth. This was a new and intoxicating havoc Christopher was lavishing on her; his hands tightened on her hips, holding her to him, as softly his tongue caressed and explored her. The touch of his mouth, there where she never dreamed of it, was exquisite agony. Nicole was an abandoned creature, aware only of Christopher and what he was doing to her, her head twisting from side to side, her body arching and rushing up to greet eagerly the darting of his tongue. Sobbing aloud her pleasure, trembling with the near ecstasy that was beginning to shake her body, blindly she reached out for him, wanting to touch him, to taste him, to feel him, to communicate to him this wild, fierce enchantment. Her groping fingers encountered the crisp darkness of his head enfolded between her thighs, and with a low animal-like purr, she clutched the black hair. Her fingers clenching, she urged him on, unaware that her soft cries of pleasure were as potent as any caress, driving Christopher to increase the tempo, until she felt wave after wave of ecstasy break over her, leaving her gasping and shuddering.
Limp and satiated, too replete to move, she was dimly aware of Christopher’s body covering hers, his mouth finding her lips as he penetrated her. She could taste herself on his lips, smell the faint muskiness of herself as he kissed her deeply, his body moving on hers. With a jolt she felt desire begin anew; the earlier lethargy vanished, leaving her eagerly thrusting up to meet the plunge of Christopher’s hard body, her lips moving sweetly against his, her tongue a small brand of fire as she returned his searching caress.
With the taste of her still on his tongue, Christopher was oblivious to anything but the slender body beneath his, the searing caress of her hands as they roamed at will across his scarred back down to his driving hips. In that instant every other woman he had ever known faded from his mind and there was only Nicole, Nicole with her welcoming softness, her bosom crushed under his chest, and her hands driving him wild, until he could bear it no longer, and with a husky growl he spilled himself into her.
Nicole felt the jump and convulsion of his long body against hers and it was bittersweet. Her own body throbbed and shook with the force of another piercing gust of pleasure, proving once again how effortlessly he could lift her to the heights of passion, how powerless she was in his arms.
Chapter 16
The cold gray light of winter dawn was filtering into the room when Christopher awoke. For several seconds he lay there, not certain where he was. Then as Nicole moved lightly in her sleep, her slender body pressing closer to his, awareness and the memory of last night came hurtling back.
Gently, not disturbing her, he shifted his big body away from her and, propping himself up on one elbow, stared intently down into her sleeping face, wondering bleakly why she of all women should be the one he wanted most in the world. And want her he did. Just watching her as she lay sleeping was enough to make his pulse stir, his breath come faster, his body harden with desire, and not conscious that he did it, he slowly slid the blankets from her body, his eyes caressing her. Ah, Jesus, he thought dully, she was fashioned by the devil to make men mad, and I have no defense against her. What in hell’s creation am I going to do? I cannot tear her from me, she has sunk her fangs in too deeply, has twisted herself around me, until all I know is that I want her…that she is mine.
For a long, long time he stared down into Nicole’s face, noting, with a derisive smile at his own enchantment, the way the long curly lashes lay like dark shadows upon the pale cheeks. Her lips were bruised ruby, the soft fullness inviting, but with an effort Christopher stilled the impulse to lean over and kiss her awake.
Chilled by the cold air on her naked body, Nicole stirred in her sleep, and not wishing to awaken her, Christopher replaced the blankets and left her bed. If she woke, he would make love to her again, and while his body was eager for her, his mind wanted time—time in which to think, to puzzle out this dilemma in which he found himself.
Slipping into his scattered clothes, he departed silently from her room and walked down the long hall and crossed to his own room. He tossed his jacket and crumpled cravat on a chair and dropped his boots near the door. With deft movements he stripped off the remainder of his clothing and crawled beneath the blankets of his own bed.
Sleep was the farthest thought from his mind as he lay there, his hands behind his dark head, his eyes fixed on the damask canopy of the bed. Last night he had hoped to resolve something; instead he was more deeply entangled.
When he had said he was not drunk last night, he had told the truth. He had gone out to a waterfront dive to put Nicole from his mind, but he discovered to his horror that she was still there, tempting and tantalizingly out of reach. The later the hour grew, the more he convinced himself that he had only to take her one more time, to feel once again that shudder she gave when, despite herself, she was swept along with his lovemaking, and then he would be free. Then he could set her aside and live as he had done in the past.
With that notion stubbornly fixed in his brain, he had proceeded to do exactly that. His actions had not given him the answer he sought. His mouth tightened as he sourly acknowledged he still wanted Nicole, wanted her as badly as he had last night.
The startling knowledge grew that not only did he want her body—he wanted her! All of her, her thoughts, her laughter, yes, even her stormy fits of temper. He tried to envision a life in which there was no furious, topaz-eyed vixen to hurl herself angrily at him. It was not possible. Whatever Nicole was, he wanted her. And despised himself for doing so.
You are mad, he decided. Like Nicole, he found no solution to his dilemma, only more confusion.
He was lying there, his mind exhausted from the seemingly irresolvable problem, when Higgins entered.
Glancing at the bed and seeing that Christopher was awake, he said cheerfully, “Well, good morning to you, sir! Would like some coffee brought to you or would you prefer to wait until you have dressed?”
Christopher grunted, and taking the sound to mean no, Higgins began to pick up the clothing strewn about the room. Having put the room to rights, the little man crossed to the shuttered windows and opened them to let what daylight there was come filtering into the room. Looking outside at the sky, Higgins observed, “Hmmm, I think we’ll have rain, by the size of those black clouds crowding the horizon. If you have any plans for going out, I’d suggest that you cancel them.”
Knowing further concentration was useless, Christopher threw back the blankets and walked over to a marble-topped washstand. Throwing cold water onto his face, he growled, “Since when has the weather ever deterred me?”
An hour later a freshly shaved and bathed Christopher sipped a cup of strong coffee and watched as Higgins laid out his apparel for the day. It was fashionable town wear—a vest of flowered silk, skintight pantaloons in pale gold broadcloth, and a long coat of dark forest green.
He left the house about nine o’clock and sauntered to Maspero’s Exchange. At this time of the morning it was not crowded, and with ease Christopher found a table in one corner of the long wooden building and ordered café au lait.
Christopher did not remain by himself for long; his coffee had barely arrived when Eustace Croix sauntered over to the table and joined him.
“Ah, so you are back,” Eustace began by way of greeting, a wide smile revealing two rows of startling white teeth. “You know, mon ami, you have a disconcerting way of disappearing and then reappearing. I have remarked on it often during the years, but you always brush me aside. This time I will have an answer! Where in the devil’s name have you been for the past six months or so? Exciting things have been happening in our city, I can tell you that!” Eustace finished with a wink. His black eyes were bold in an olive complexion.
“Oh?” Christopher inquired. “What? A new cock that is the strongest and fiercest around? A horse that can run like the wind? Or, yes, it must be! You have
a new quadroon mistress.”
“Mon ami, you wound me!” Eustace cried, his gaze bright with laughter. Sobering he said, “Have you heard of Lafitte? Of what has befallen him?”
Christopher stiffened. “No. What has our friend Jean been doing lately.”
“Hiding. The so proper and patriotic Commodore Patterson and Colonel Ross of the Army have destroyed Barataria. In September they attacked the stronghold and overran the place.” With a satisfied expression on his face he added, “But the victory was not as complete as if should have been—neither Jean nor Pierre was there.”
“Pierre? The last I heard he was in the calaboose.”
Eustace grinned. “Ah, yes, for a while perhaps, but have you ever known the Lafittes not to manage to free themselves? Pierre along with three negroes escaped not many days before the attack on Barataria, much to the consternation of the military. According to the rumors I have heard, though, Pierre is quite ill. And Jean is in hiding—Dominique You and scores of the others are cooling their heels in the calaboose, and Barataria is in the hands of the military.”
Christopher’s face was grim. “And Claiborne? I suppose he is pleased with himself?”
“Now there you have me, mon ami. I must tell you that there is some mystery about the entire affair.” Leaning forward confidentially, Eustace said, “I have heard that Lafitte wrote to the governor prior to the attack. It is known the governor called a meeting of his advisors to discuss something important to do with Lafitte, that I know. Gossip has it that Lafitte offered to help defend our fair city, if the British attempt to descend upon us.” Eustace shrugged. “Me, I do not think such a thing is possible. Claiborne is a nervous old woman, seeing wicked things where there are none.”
Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 23