The Valentine Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  And that was just the beginning. She couldn’t stop the moans, the marks she was making on his body. She was lost in the feelings he was whipping up in her, and she loved it. The old Jessie and the new Jessie—she didn’t know the difference. Who cared? Finally when she was breathing as if she’d run all the way to Chase Park and back, he came down over her and kissed her, his tongue deep in her mouth, and to her utter surprise, those strange feelings were swamping her again. Instinctively she lifted her hips for him. It was all he needed. He moved within her, but he wasn’t frenzied this time. He was controlled, and it drove her insane. She shouted his name, squeezing him as hard as she could, and she heard him laugh and moan.

  James took his release, at last, his head hanging down, his breathing hard and raw. Finally, he managed to look up into her glazed eyes. “Damnation, Jessie, you’re going to kill me before I’m thirty.”

  “Some promise,” she said, then squirmed until he was on his back and she was pressed against him, her head on his shoulder, her open palm on his belly. “You know,” she said, her breath warm against his flesh, “it was so beautiful, James. You made me feel like a star bursting in the heavens. You made me a woman, James. I’m fulfilled now, and ecstatically happy.”

  He pushed her down onto her back again and began winding a streamer around his finger. “‘A star bursting in the heavens’? Is that what you said?”

  “Yes, all sorts of white lights and rampant sorts of deliciously wicked feelings. I wanted you so much, James, and you gave me everything.”

  “I made you feel like a woman? You’re fulfilled now? ‘Ecstatically happy’ you said?”

  “Oh, yes. You’re a wonderful lover, James. You’re more a man than any man I’ve ever known, not that I’ve ever known another man intimately, of course. I’m very lucky.” She gave him a fat smile and giggled.

  He smoothed back the hair from her forehead. He lightly touched his fingers to her breast. Her flesh was so very white. He looked down the long line of her, her waist, her flat belly, the stretch of her white legs. He thought only fleetingly of the old Jessie and smiled at himself. Then he closed his hands around her throat and squeezed. “You’re a wretched tease, Jessie Wyndham. The fact of the matter is that I did make you scream and drum your heels and do all sorts of nice things to me with your hands and your mouth, but not enough. You’re still a neophyte. You’re just a beginner in this business. But you’re learning. Now, you’re pretending that it’s nighttime and you’re exhausted. Well, it’s time to earn your keep. Now, let’s go to the stable. There’s always more than enough work to do.”

  While he was pulling on his black Hessians, he knew how he was going to make his smart-mouthed wife pay for her games.

  “More salt, if you please, Mrs. Catsdoor. Yes, that’s better. That should be about right.” James laid down the big spoon. The ham soup was seasoned perfectly.

  “But I don’t understand, Master James, I—”

  “I want to serve my wife, Mrs. Catsdoor. You and Harlow may have your own dinner now.”

  On his way to the dining room, James added even more salt to the soup. “Ah, here you are, Jessie. Consider me your servant for the evening. Soup, my dear? Mrs. Catsdoor does it very well. Yes, a nice big bowl for you. And a glass of my best port. It’s heavy, I know that, but it goes perfectly with the ham soup, Badger’s recipe.”

  He watched her while she spooned a bite into her mouth. “It’s rather salty,” she said, picking up her wineglass and sipping at the hearty port. “Does Badger really put that much salt into it?”

  “Oh yes. He says it makes the ham nearly jump around in your mouth, all that flavor. More port, Jessie?”

  Fifteen minutes later she’d forgotten that he’d eaten very little, and none of that delicious ham soup at all, but as he’d told her, “I don’t do well with ham. It makes my belly ache,” and she’d thought that was fortuitous since it would make all that much more for her. It was the best ham soup she’d ever had placed in front of her.

  He sat back in his chair, his hands laced over his belly, watching her alternately take a bite of the ham soup, then drink that sin-red port. He sipped at his water and ate a chunk of warm bread.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I stole a kiss from Margaret Tittlemore? Out in her father’s barn with a calf butting against my leg?”

  “Margaret Tittlemore? Goodness, James, she’s married now and has four children! You stole a kiss?”

  “We were both fourteen and believe me, Jessie, she had the prettiest mouth, all pink and pouting. Anyway, after I’d stolen that kiss, she slapped me—not very hard because she’d wanted that kiss, too—but I wasn’t expecting that slap, and it was enough to knock me off balance. I fell over the calf, who mooed loudly enough to bring his mother. She poked me in the stomach, sending me over backward into the hay bin. Unfortunately one of the stable lads had forgotten to remove the rake, and I landed right on the tines. I had four glorious holes in my butt for two months.”

  She laughed, drank more port, watched James pour more into her now-empty glass, and drank that. “What was Margaret doing while all this was going on?”

  “The miserable girl was standing there holding her sides, laughing her head off. I quite like Margaret. She’s produced good children.”

  Jessie laughed and laughed. She drank some more port. He eyed her joyfully. He counted the glasses she’d already drunk. He didn’t want her to be sick the next day. He strolled along the table, then pulled her chair away and placed a hand on each arm of the chair. He leaned over and put his mouth against hers. “How do you feel, Jessie?”

  “Marvelous. Oh, James, your tongue across my lower lip tickles. Do it again.” She giggled, and her warm breath washed through him like a wave that couldn’t wait to crest. She heaved a deep sigh when he kissed her again, his tongue slipping between her lips this time.

  When he was carrying her up the wide staircase, knowing that Mrs. Catsdoor was very likely watching his progress, he leaned down and kissed her ear. “How do you feel, Jessie?”

  “I want to kiss you,” she said, leaned up, grabbing his shoulders, and nearly knocked him backward.

  “In just a moment, you can do whatever you want to do,” he said, and began to run. His game was fast turning back on him.

  When he had her naked, flat on her back on the wide bed, he stripped off his own clothes and came over her, shuddering at the softness of her, the heat, the feel of her hands as they stroked up and down his back.

  “James,” she said, arching upward. He kissed her, moving over her, pressing himself against her belly.

  “Slow down,” he said into her mouth, and licked her lip, then quickly nipped her earlobe. She loved it when he kissed her breasts, massaging them, rubbing his cheek against her soft flesh. She giggled, leaned up, and bit his neck.

  He grinned at her, butted her head back with his chin, and began licking and nibbling on her throat. She laughed, squirmed, and pulled his ear. “I want you to see lights. I want you to yell that you’re a woman, that you’re fulfilled, that you’ve had a glimpse of heaven.”

  “All that?”

  “Ah, Jessie, take this.”

  She gave him an owl-eyed stare, kissed him, her mouth open, her tongue busy on his, and whispered into his mouth, “I know I probably shouldn’t be telling you how wonderful you are, but it’s true. You’re grand, James, just grand. I hurt, deep down in my belly, I hurt, but I don’t want it to go away, the way I would a bellyache. Make it keep going, James. Make it like the other times. Ah, is that a white light I see?”

  “Yell, Jessie.”

  When his fingers probed to find her this time, she did yell, shattering his eardrums.

  Port was a wonderful brew. But he hadn’t needed it. There was no more game in his mind, there was only giving and taking and knowing soul-deep pleasure.

  He held on by a thread. He wouldn’t enter her until he’d given her pleasure. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, all the while stroking her, car
essing her, pushing her. When she cried out, tugging at his hair, pushing her hips upward, he knew he had to be the happiest man on earth. She was wild with pleasure, clutching him to her as if she wouldn’t survive without him. He pushed her and pushed her more, giving her all he could, and when he eased inside her, she moaned softly and whispered, “You were made for me, James. Just for me.”

  He agreed. He didn’t have long to contemplate what she’d said. He was gone in moments, jerking over her, moaning as if he’d been shot, sweating like a stoat. When it was over, he collapsed on top of her.

  “James?”

  He was nearly dead. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to try to get through the next few moments still breathing. He’d been a wild man and she’d loved it. Both of them had gone mad. Everything had worked beyond the port, beyond his wildest dreams.

  Utterly mad, and it had been beyond anything he’d ever felt in his life. He’d given her immense pleasure. He’d made her lose complete touch with the world. He was a happy man.

  “James.” How could she even talk? How could she even think of a single word to say? He was nearly beyond what wits God had given him, and here she was saying his name as if it were the easiest thing in the world. He supposed it was his responsibility to make some sort of response. He managed to grunt.

  She giggled. “I feel marvelous. What’s wrong with you? I’ve overpleasured you, haven’t I? Ah, James, did you see white lights? Do you feel fulfilled as a man? Will you revere me for as long as you live?”

  He groaned, tried to push his arms up to get his weight off her, then collapsed again. “I’ll think of something. Just give me a while.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and said, “I’m tipsy. Not as tipsy as on our wedding day, but tipsy enough to know that when stallions cover mares, they surely can’t enjoy it as much as I do. Having you inside my body, ah, well, perhaps if I had another glass of port—perhaps two—I would be able to express myself more properly.”

  “You’re not being at all proper. Your mother would scold you. Glenda would smack your face. As for my mother, God alone knows what she would do.”

  “He speaks,” she said, and laughed as she kissed his ear. “He speaks a lot. Your heart’s slowing, James.”

  “I’ll live. It was close, but I’m fairly sure now that I’ll make it.”

  He finally managed to push himself up onto his elbows. He looked down at a face he’d known for six years, once a young girl’s face, but no longer. She was a woman and his wife.

  “The look on your face when you came to your release—it pleased me mightily, Jessie. You still look so bewildered, so anxious that whatever is happening is really going to happen again and again. It did. It always will with us. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “You didn’t lie there like a dead dog, James. You surely enjoyed yourself as much as I did. You sweated more and you made more noises.”

  He kissed her. “Perhaps just a little. Am I an excellent lover?”

  “The best. Am I your best lover?”

  She regretted the words the instant they’d escaped unbidden from her mouth. Fool, she was nothing but a fool and now he would have to lie or he’d tell the truth, which would probably be worse. She thought of Connie Maxwell, of the countless other women he’d known, including his first wife, Alicia. Why hadn’t she just kept her mouth shut?

  He looked thoughtful. He moved over her, as if settling in. He was still inside her. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts. “That’s difficult,” he said finally, leaning down to nibble her earlobe. “You still don’t know much yet, but your enthusiasm was deafening. My eardrums are still vibrating. I liked hearing you shriek.”

  “I don’t remember shrieking precisely.”

  “You aren’t a good liar, Jessie. Give it up. I love the feel of you. Every day, every night, perhaps after afternoon tea, perhaps just before lunch, and then there’s—”

  That was an excellent beginning, she thought. “You got me tipsy on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “You’re sobering up too quickly. Yes, I wanted you to melt for me, Jessie, and you did. The fact that I melted right along with you, well, that means that we’re very good with each other. I like to hear you giggle and laugh. Lovemaking should be fun. I always want you to enjoy yourself.”

  “You put salt in the ham soup.”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I going to want to die tomorrow?”

  “No, you didn’t drink that much. I was careful about your intake this time.”

  “You’re still inside me.”

  He quivered, hardening again, coming deeper. She shifted and lifted her hips, bringing him even deeper.

  “Jessie, you want me again?”

  “I think so, James. Tomorrow, you know, I’m going to make you very sorry that you tricked me.”

  “If I’m to be punished on the morrow, then give me tonight,” he said, dipped his head down, and kissed her.

  He awoke to a shriek. He rose right up in the bed, shaking his head. Another shriek. It was Jessie, having another nightmare. “Jessie,” he said, and lightly shook her shoulders. It was dawn and he could see her face. She screamed again.

  “Jessie, wake up.”

  Her eyes remained closed. Her head moved back and forth on the pillow. Then she said quite clearly, “No, go away from me. No, stop it, Mr. Tom! Oh God, no, don’t do that.”

  By all that was holy, it wasn’t Jessie’s voice. Well, it was her voice, but it was her voice of long ago, when she’d been very young, when she’d been just a girl who was obviously frightened out of her wits. What was going on here? It was the way her voice had sounded that first time she’d dreamed about this Mr. Tom in James’s hearing.

  “Jessie!”

  He shook her until she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, but it wasn’t him she was seeing, not in that instant. She tried to lurch away from him.

  “No, Jessie, it’s all right now. You just had a nightmare. It’s all right. I’m here. I’m James.”

  “Of course you’re James. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  That was his Jessie, thank God.

  “You had the dream again. No, wake up, Jessie. We’ve got to talk about this. Who was this Mr. Tom? You sounded like a little girl, like he was hurting you. Was he trying to rape you, Jessie?”

  “Oh, James,” she whispered, and the next moment she was asleep. He stared down at her, lightly smoothed her eyebrows with his fingertips, and kissed her slack mouth.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow I want to know all about this bastard.”

  But the following morning, Bertram kicked Esmerelda, who bit him on his neck, and together they kicked out their stalls. James was out of bed running to the stables, leaving Jessie to struggle into her clothes.

  * * *

  Jessie couldn’t believe her ears. “Who is here, Mrs. Catsdoor?”

  “It’s Baron Hughes, Mrs. James. There’s a young lady with him.” This was said in a warning tone that didn’t leave Jessie in any doubt she wasn’t going to like this.

  “I suppose we have no choice. Do show them in, Mrs. Catsdoor. Is Master James about?”

  “I’ll send Harlow to fetch him. I’ll bring tea and some of Mr. Badger’s lemon cakes he left me.”

  Baron Hughes stood in the drawing-room doorway, looking at her as if he’d like to shoot her where she stood. He gave her a travesty of a bow, saying, “Good day to you, Mrs. Wyndham. I would like you to meet my niece, Laura Frothingill, my younger brother’s daughter.”

  Laura Frothingill was staring at her, weighing her, at least that’s what it made Jessie think, and finding her wanting.

  “You’re a Colonial,” she said.

  “Yes, just like James.”

  “James is the product of excellent English blood, not some sort of mongrel of unknown antecedents,” the baron said.

  “Are you certain you wish to be in the same room with a mongrel, sir?”

  “Don’t you try t
o make sport of me, missie!”

  “All right. Won’t you come in and tell me why you’ve taken your valuable time to come to Candlethorpe.”

  “I wanted Laura to see what supplanted my Alicia.”

  The baron looked for the world like her father’s thoroughbred Gallen, who got blood in his eyes whenever another racehorse got within six feet of him.

  So she was a what, not a who. So be it.

  She smiled and held out her hand to Laura Frothingill, who stared at her hand, which was admittedly tanned, as if she were diseased.

  She withdrew her hand and said mildly, “You’re very lovely, Miss Frothingill.”

  “If only James had met her, she would now be his wife.”

  “I doubt that,” Jessie said in that same mild voice, “not if he saw the look on her face right now.”

  “What do you mean the look on my face? I am beautiful!”

  “Not now, you’re not. You look like a vicious mare I once saw who kicked in a fence, broke her own leg, and had to be put down.”

  “Be quiet, you damned trollop!”

  “It just occurred to me,” Jessie said in that same mild, easy voice, “that this is my house. You are both incredibly rude. I would like both of you to leave.”

  “Not until James meets dear Laura.”

  “Ah, I see it all now. You want to make him feel sorry that he married me?”

  “He will feel sorry, damn you! Then he just might take care of you.”

  “Well, let’s say you’re right, sir. What will he do about it? Divorce me? Perhaps even strangle me?”

  The baron literally gnashed his teeth. Laura Frothingill suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “Uncle Lyndon,” she said, tugging on his sleeve, “let us leave now. She’s right. There’s nothing to be done.”

  “Dammit, you can’t have him, you miserable slut! I won’t let you have him, do you hear me? I’ll kill you myself!”

  He leaped at her, his hands outstretched. Laura screamed. Jessie jerked away, but she wasn’t fast enough. In her own drawing room, she thought, as his hands came around her throat, she was being strangled in her own drawing room. But Jessie wasn’t helpless. He was old, but damn he was strong. Laura continued screaming.