The Heart's Victory

by Nora Roberts

  “It’s beautiful,” she went on in a voice touched with wonder. “Really beautiful, but it’s so . . . settled,” she decided, then looked back at him. “I suppose that’s it. I’ve never thought of you as settled.”

  “I enjoy being settled now and again,” was his careless answer. Foxy thought that in the trim gray suit he looked at ease amid the ivy and brownstone. Yet there was something in his eyes, she realized, that would never quite be tamed. Expert tailoring and priceless antiques would never alter the man he was. Knowing she was mad to prefer the sinner to the saint, Foxy was nevertheless glad.

  “But I should be prepared to pack at a moment’s notice?” she asked, giving him a smile a great deal like her brother’s.

  “How fortunate I am to have married a woman who understands me.” His grin was crooked and familiar and still managed to send her pulse racing. He moved toward her, then wound one of the curls that framed her face around his finger. “And an exceptional-looking creature as well; quite bright, quick with her tongue, impulsive enough to be fascinating, and with a voice that constantly sounds like she’s just been aroused.”

  Foxy flushed with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “Sounds like you made quite a deal.”

  “Oh, I did,” Lance agreed but his grin faded and he studied her with serious eyes. “A smart businessman knows when to make his pitch.” As quickly as it had grown grave, his expression lightened. Bemused, Foxy watched the changes. “Hungry?” he asked suddenly.

  Intrigued, Foxy shook her head. “No, not really.” She remembered the long hours he had spent driving, “I suppose there must be a can or something around I could open.”

  “I think we might do better.” Taking her hand, Lance led her down the hallway. The rooms to the right and left were dark and mysterious. “I called Mrs. Trilby yesterday. She does the housekeeping and so forth. I told her I was coming in and to have things ready. I’m not fond of dustcovers and empty pantries.” He passed through a door at the end of the hall. As he turned the switch light spilled into the kitchen.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful!” Foxy cried as she moved into the room. “Does it work?” she demanded, going immediately to the small arched fireplace that was built into one wall.

  “Yes, it works.” Lance smiled as she bent closer to peer inside.

  “I love it,” she said with a laugh as she straightened. “I’ll probably want a fire in it in August.” She ran her finger over a pine trestle table, which stood in the bow of a bay window. “The only fire I have in my kitchen is when I burn the bacon.”

  “This is your kitchen,” Lance reminded her. He watched her as he loosened the knot in his tie, then slipped it off. There was something intensely intimate in the casual gesture. Foxy felt a quick thrill and turned to walk the room.

  “I’m not very domestic,” she confessed. “I don’t even know where I keep the coffee.”

  “Try the counter behind you,” Lance suggested as he turned to find what Mrs. Trilby had tucked into the refrigerator. “Can you cook?”

  “Name it,” Foxy challenged, then located the coffee. “I can cook it.”

  “We’ll skip the Beef Wellington due to lack of time and imminent starvation. How about a couple of omelets?”

  “Kid stuff.” Foxy peeked over her shoulder. “Do you cook?”

  “Only if I fall asleep at the beach.”

  “Get me a skillet,” she ordered, trying to look disgusted.

  The Lancelot Matthewses enjoyed their wedding supper of omelets and coffee at the kitchen table. Outside, the darkness was complete, with the rain still pattering and the moon a prisoner of the clouds. Time was lost to Foxy. It might have been seven in the evening or three in the morning. The feeling of timelessness was soothing, and wanting to prolong it, she ignored the watch on her wrist. Beneath her light conversation, her nerves were struggling to reach the surface. She chided herself for having them, attempted to ignore them, but they remained, under the veneer of confidence. She toyed with the rest of her eggs as Lance divided the last of the pot of coffee between them.

  “That’s why you’re so thin,” he commented. When Foxy looked up blankly, he went on. “You don’t take enough interest in food. You lost weight during the season. I watched it slide off you.”

  Foxy shrugged away the pounds but dutifully applied herself to the rest of her eggs. “I like to eat in restaurants as the exception rather than the rule. I’ll gain it back in a couple weeks.” She smiled up at him. “I do have a growing interest in a hot bath, though.”

  “I’ll take you up,” he said and rose. “Then I’ll go out and get the bags. The rest of the luggage should arrive by tomorrow.”

  Foxy rose, too, and began to stack the dishes. Though she knew it was foolish, she felt her nerves rise with her. “You don’t have to take me up, just tell me which bath to use. I’ll find it.”

  He watched her back as she set the dishes in the sink. “The second door on the right’s the bedroom, the bath’s through there. Leave the dishes,” he ordered.

  Foxy started to refuse, but his hand on her shoulder gently persuaded her to forget her qualms. She needed a few moments alone to collect her wits. “All right,” she agreed, then turned with a nod. “I won’t be long. I imagine you’d like a bath after the driving you did today.”

  “Take your time.” They left the kitchen together and walked down the main hall. “I’ll use another bath.”

  “Fine,” Foxy said as they parted at the end of the hall. How polite we are, she thought as she fled up the stairs. How terrifyingly married.

  In the bedroom, a pair of French doors opened out onto a balcony. The walls were covered with a rich cream wallpaper with dark trim along the floor and ceiling. The furniture was a mixture of periods and styles; Hepplewhite, Chippendale, Queen Anne, and the result was both exquisite and natural. Set into the far wall was a white brick fireplace with a marble mantel; there were logs waiting to be lit within it. Foxy decided Mrs. Trilby must be efficient. The bed was a high four-poster and was covered with a midnight-blue silk counterpane. An heirloom, she knew instantly, probably priceless. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. This was the sort of thing she would have to learn to deal with—more, to live with.

  I’m being an idiot. I married Lance, not his money, not his family. Bride’s nerves. I wouldn’t feel so awkward and tense if I’d had more experience. Foxy’s gaze strayed to the bed again before she took a deep breath and looked down at her hands. Her wedding band glinted back at her. Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, she began to undress. In her slip, she walked into the bath and discovered more proof of Mrs. Trilby’s efficiency. Fresh towels were laid out along with a collection of fragrant soaps, oils, and bath salts. The tub itself was sunken, large enough for two, and Foxy’s skin tingled at the thought of languishing in it.

  As the hot water began to run she experimented with scents and oils. The room grew rich with steam and fragrance. She began to enjoy herself. Thirty minutes later, she stepped out of the tub, her muscles loose, her skin pink and scented. Choosing a mint-green towel, she wrapped it like a sarong around her body. Lulled by the bath, she hummed lightly as she pulled the confining pins from her hair. It tumbled in a confused mass past her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through it in a vain attempt to set it to rights. There’ll be a brush and a robe in the bags, she told her reflection. Surely Lance has brought them up by now. Leaving her hair carelessly tangled, Foxy opened the connecting door and walked into the bedroom.

  The room was lit by the warm glow of china lamps and a crackling fire. It was the scent and sound of the burning wood that caused Foxy to glance toward the fireplace. She was halfway into the room before she saw him. With a small sound of surprise, she clutched at the towel that was tucked loosely over her breasts. Dressed in a black kimono-style robe, Lance stood beside a round, glass-topped table. He paused in the act of opening a split of champagne and studied every inch of his wife. With her free hand, Foxy pushed at her steam-dampened
curls.

  “Enjoy your bath?” he asked, opening the champagne without taking his eyes from her.

  “Yes.” Making a quick search, Foxy spotted her cases. “I didn’t hear you in here,” she said, knowing her voice was not quite its normal pitch. “I was just going to get my brush and a robe.”

  “Why?” Deftly he poured two glasses of the sparkling wine. “I like you in green.” Foxy’s fingers tightened on the towel as he smiled. It was the wicked, devilish smile that always pulled at her. “And I like your hair when it’s not quite tamed. Come.” He held out a glass. “Have some champagne.”

  It was not as Foxy had planned it. She knew she should have been dressed in the peignoir Pam had given her. She should have been alluring and confident and ready for him. It had not been in her plans to greet her husband on their wedding night clad in only a bath towel with her hair flying every which way and a look of stunned surprise on her face. She obeyed him, however, accepting the wine in the hope that it would soothe the sudden dryness in her throat. As she started to lift the glass to her lips, he reached out and took her wrist. Her pulse throbbed desperately under his fingertips.

  “No toast, Foxy?” he said softly, the smile still lingering on his lips. His eyes remained on hers as he took a step closer and touched his glass to hers. “To a well-driven race.”

  She lifted her glass warily, watching him as she sipped. The champagne was ice cold and thrilling on her tongue.

  “Only one glass tonight, Fox,” Lance murmured. “I don’t want your mind clouded.”

  Her heart hammering, Foxy turned away. “This is a lovely room.” She hastily cleared her throat and moistened her lips. “I’ve never seen so many antiques in one place.”

  “Are you fond of antiques?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered as she moved around the room. “I’ve never had any. You must like them.” The last word was only a whisper as she turned around and found him directly behind her. There was something eerie about the soundless way he moved. She would have taken a quick step in retreat, but his hand circled her neck.

  “It appears there’s only one way to get you to hold still.” With the merest pressure of his fingers, he brought her to her toes and firmly covered her mouth. Foxy felt the room dip and sway. His tongue teased the tip of hers before it traced her lips. “Would you like to discuss my Hepplewhite collection?” he asked. From her limp fingers, he took the half-filled glass of champagne.

  Foxy opened her eyes. “No.” Even the short word was difficult to form as her gaze strayed to his mouth. In an instant he was kissing her again, and the passion built, shuddering through her. She was clinging to him without having been aware of moving at all. The towel slipped unnoticed to the floor. With a low sound of pleasure, Lance buried his mouth against the curve of her throat while his hands ran over her heated skin. She felt the pain of desire and pressed closer to him. “Lance,” she murmured as the blood drummed in her head. “I want you. Love me. Love me now.” The words were lost under his mouth as it returned urgently to hers. “The light,” she said breathlessly as he lowered her to the bed.

  His eyes were dark and compelling. “I want to see you.”

  His body fitted itself to hers. He did not love gently. She had not expected gentleness, she had not expected patience. She had expected quick heat and urgent demands, and she was not disappointed. His hands moved roughly over her, exploring before they possessed. From her lips, his mouth trailed down along her throat, hungry always hungry, as it journeyed to her breast. Foxy moaned with trembling pleasure as he flicked his tongue over her nipple. The ache of desire spread from her stomach. His hands were bruising, arousing as they wandered down her rib cage, lingering at her waist and hips as his mouth continued to ravish her breast.

  She began to move under him, a woman’s instinct making her motions sensual and inviting. Lean and firm, his hands massaged the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and her muscles went lax, her joints fluid. She learned that he made love as he had raced—with intensity and absorption. There was a ruthless, steady dominance in him, a power that demanded much more than submission. Surrender would have been too tame a response. More, she discovered her own power. He needed her. She could feel it in the urgency of his hands, taste it in the hunger of his mouth. She heard it as he spoke her name. They were tangled together, flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth while it seemed the only reality was dark, moist kisses and heated skin. The faint scent of wood smoke added something ageless and primitive.

  As her body tingled under his hands she began to make her own explorations. She discovered the hard, rippling muscles that his leanness had disguised. As she moved her hands to his hips Lance groaned against her mouth and took the kiss deeper. His hands grew wild, desperate, and she tumbled with him into a world ruled by sensation. The pleasure was acute, so sharp it brought with it a hint of pain. There seemed to be no part of her that he did not wish to know, to enjoy, to conquer. She locked her arms tightly around his neck, burying her mouth against his throat. His taste filled her until champagne seemed a poor substitute. Here was something dark and male she had yet to learn, and she traced the tip of her tongue over his skin, exploring, discovering. Passion was building beyond anything she had imagined possible. Both emotionally and physically, her response was absolute. She was his.

  Her breath was clogging in her lungs, passing through her lips as moans and sighs. Desire reached a turbulent peak when she whispered his name. “Lance.” His mouth took hers with fresh desperation, cutting off her words. He shifted on top of her, urging her legs apart with the movement.

  The pleasure she had thought already at its summit, increased. Passion came in hot, irresistible waves, overpowering her with its tumultuous journey until all need, all sensation focused into one.

  The dawn approached slowly. She was still wrapped tightly in his arms when the hiss of rain lulled her to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Foxy felt content. A dull red mist behind her lids told her the sun was falling on her face. With a small sigh, she allowed sleep to drift slowly away. She remembered the ease of Saturday mornings when she had been a young girl. Then she would lie in bed, dozing blissfully, knowing there was nothing but pleasure in the day ahead. There would be no worries, no time schedules, no responsibilities. School and Monday morning were centuries away. Foxy drifted on the edge of consciousness with the sensation of being both protected and free—a combination of feeling that had not been hers for a decade. She inched closer to it and clung.

  There was a weight around her waist that added to her sense of security. Beside her was warmth. She snuggled yet closer to it. Lazily her lids fluttered open, and she looked directly into Lance’s eyes. The past was whisked away as the present took over, but the sensation she woke with remained. Neither she nor Lance spoke. She saw by the clearness of his gaze that he had been awake for some time. There was no hint of sleep in his eyes. They were as sharp and focused as hers were soft and heavy. His hair was tousled around his head, reminding her that it had been her fingers that had disturbed it short hours before. They continued to watch each other as their mouths moved closer to linger in a whisper of a kiss. The thought that they were naked and tangled together seeped through Foxy’s drowsy contentment. The arm around her waist was firm in its possession.

  “You looked like a child as you slept,” he murmured as his mouth journeyed over her face. “Very young and untouched.”

  Foxy did not want to tell him that her thoughts had been childlike as well. As his fingers traced her spine she began to feel more and more as a woman. “How long have you been awake?”

  His hand roamed with absentminded intimacy over her hip and thigh. Reminded that his touch the night before had not been absentminded, she felt her drowsiness swiftly abating. “Awhile,” he said as he tightened his arm to bring her yet closer. “I considered waking you.” His eyes roamed to her sleep-flushed cheeks, to the rich confusion of her hair against the pillowcase, to the full soft
ness of her untinted mouth. “I rather enjoyed watching you sleep. There aren’t many women who can manage to be both soothing and exciting the first thing in the morning.”

  Foxy arched her brows deliberately. “You know a great deal about women first thing in the morning?”

  He grinned, then nuzzled the white curve of her neck. “I’m an early riser.”

  “A likely story,” Foxy murmured, feeling her contentment mixing with a more demanding sensation. “I suppose you’re hungry.” She felt the tip of his tongue flick over her skin.

  “Oh yes, I have quite an appetite this morning.” He caught her bottom lip between his teeth. Desire quickened in Foxy’s stomach. “You have the most appealing taste,” he told her as he teased her lips apart. “I’m finding it habit forming. Your skin’s amazingly soft,” he went on as his hand moved to cup her breast. “Especially for someone who appears to be mostly bone and nerve.” He ran his thumb over its peak and watched her eyes cloud. “I don’t think I’m going to get enough of you anytime soon.”

  He was leading her quickly into passion with quiet words and experienced hands. His touch was no longer that of a stranger and was all the more arousing for its familiarity. She knew now what waited for her when all the doors were opened. She learned and enjoyed and shared. The morning grew late.

  It was past noon when Foxy moved down the staircase toward the main floor. She moved slowly, telling herself that the day would last forever if she didn’t hurry it. She wanted to explore the house, but firmly turned toward the kitchen. The other rooms would wait until Lance was with her. She had only taken two steps down the hall when the doorbell rang. Glancing up the stairs, Foxy concluded that Lance could hardly be finished showering and decided to answer the bell herself.

  There were two women standing on the sheltered white porch. One look told Foxy that they were not door-to-door salespeople. The first was young, around Foxy’s age, with warm brunette hair and a rosy complexion. She had a youthful beauty and frank, curious brown eyes. Her clothes were casual but expensive: a tweed suit with a fitted jacket and flared skirt softened by a silk blouse. Supreme confidence was in her every move.

  The second woman was more mature but no less striking. Her hair was white and short, brushed back from a delicately pale face. She had few lines or wrinkles, and her not inconsiderable beauty depended more on her superb bone structure and cameo coloring than on the prodigal application of makeup. Her ice-blue suit matched her eyes; its simplicity cunningly announced its price. It occurred to Foxy in the instant they studied each other that her face was quite lovely but expressionless—like a painting of a lovely landscape executed without imagination.

  “Hello.” Foxy shifted her smile from one woman to the other. “May I help you?”

  “Perhaps you’d be good enough to let us in.” Foxy heard the distinct Boston cadence in the older woman’s voice before she breezed into the hallway. More curious than annoyed, Foxy stepped aside to allow the younger woman to cross the threshold. Standing in the center of the hall, the matron stripped off her white kid gloves and surveyed Foxy’s straight-leg jeans and loose chenille sweater. The air was suddenly redolent with French perfume. “And where,” she demanded imperiously, “is my son?”