The Orchid Hunter

by Jill Marie Landis

  All he wanted right now was to keep the radiant glow on her face and the happiness in her eyes and, lord help him, he felt as if he would move heaven and earth in order to do so. Tomorrow would be soon enough to explain to her how things were going to have to be.

  “Come here,” he whispered, pulling her close so that he could kiss her.

  She willingly came to him, lifting her face until his lips touched hers. Then she opened to him like an orchid bud as it is coaxed into bloom by the sunlight, slowly revealing more and more until its alluring beauty is fully realized.

  She scooted closer, climbed up him as it were, until they lay bare breasts to bare chest and then she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He kissed her slowly, deeply, exploring with his tongue, teasing her lips, teaching her to kiss him back, to taste and nip and savor.

  When he touched the satin-soft, translucent skin over her breasts, he was reminded that no matter how strong she seemed, she was still very feminine, very fragile. He let his hand trail over her firm midriff to her navel and circled it with his fingertip. She shivered. He found the knot that held the scrap of fabric, her pudong, in place.

  As if by magic, it came loose immediately and became no more than a blood-red and saffron stain against the ivory satin counterpane. Joya sighed. He could tell she was smiling against his lips.

  “I have waited so long to be deflowered. To be initiated into the rites of womanhood by my husband. There was a time I thought I would never marry.”

  He pulled her over him, tugging, sliding, edging her around until he had slipped the bedclothes out from beneath her. He tucked her beside him and did not bother with the covers again.

  “I am so very, very lucky that I have a husband now, and that it is you. I dreamed of you once, you know, when I was a girl.”

  “You mean you dreamed of marrying someone like me.

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. I saw you in my dream. I know it was you.”

  It was impossible, but he was not about to argue anything with her just now, for she had begun to kiss him, to take the initiative and practice what the last few moments had taught her.

  He was delighted to note that she had learned her lessons so well. His hand fell to her breast, and his lips soon followed. When he took her nipple between his teeth and gently teased it into a tight bud, she moaned and writhed against him, thrusting her hips much the way she had done during the seductive dance.

  He had never, ever wanted a woman so badly. Hell, he thought, he had never, ever wanted anything as badly as he wanted his warm and oh-so-willing wife. Her breasts filled his palms, tempted him to lave and lick them. When he did, he felt her fingers tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck. She whispered his name over and over again, pressing him to her breast, urging him to take more.

  He slipped his hand between them, moved down to touch her between her legs, was shocked when he felt her slick and wet, indeed, ready to be deflowered. Slipping his fingers inside her, he stroked and teased and stoked the fire within until she clung to him and cried out breathlessly.

  “Oh, Trevor, do it now, please. I don’t think I can wait any longer!”

  Fantasies flitted through his mind, thoughts and images of her touching him intimately, her lips on him, tasting, bringing him to the edge of release—but she was still an innocent, no matter how much she had heard or what she thought she knew of lovemaking. After Venezuela there would be time, plenty of time, to get to know one another in so many, many ways.

  His breath came in ragged bursts as he eased himself up and over her, hung suspended between her legs before he nudged them wider with his knee.

  “Open for me, Joya.”

  Like the fragile, erotic petals of an orchid flower dripping with dew, she blossomed. He pressed against her honeyed warmth, found entry, eased into her. He heard her breath catch, felt her shudder beneath him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It hurt a bit, just then.”

  He waited, suspended in her and over her for what seemed like a lifetime and a heartbeat and then she seemed to sigh and relax. He moved again, slowly, bit by agonizing bit. She moaned low in her throat and clutched him tightly against her and he drove into her, granting her utmost wish. She gasped and held perfectly still.

  “Trevor?”

  “What?”

  “Am I deflowered?”

  “Yes.” He barely managed to get the word out.

  “Is that all? Is it over?”

  “No…there’s a bit more to come.”

  “Oh, good. Show me.”

  “I will,” he whispered. “I will.”

  * * *

  From what she had seen of his staff before he slipped inside her, Joya thought it a miracle that she and her husband actually fit one another. A miracle indeed, she decided again, when he pronounced her deflowered and then assured her there were more delicious delights to come.

  He was moving inside her now, sensuously rocking and stroking her with his member. She wanted to cry out, but was afraid that she would awaken the entire household. No wonder the Matarengi insisted upon a marriage hut hidden in the jungle. No wonder. So many things were fast becoming clear.

  She could not lie still with Trevor working such exquisite magic. She began to rock with him, locked safe in his arms. He was moving faster, and as she felt the urge building inside her, she followed him, certain he would never lead her anywhere she did not want to go.

  His brandy-scented breath was warm against her neck, comforting and soothing. She moaned, unable to hold back the sound that filled her throat.

  He took her even higher, toward a pinnacle that she never knew existed. She answered every thrust, flew with him until they reached the summit together. Then, unable to hold back, she took the lead, went before him, cried out again. Her climax rippled outward.

  When Trevor abruptly began to withdraw, she gave a cry of protest, wrapped her legs around his waist, trapped him between her thighs. He called her name, in ecstasy or protest she could not tell, as he drove into her.

  Still shuddering with her own release, she felt his seed fill her and smiled, satisfied that she had brought him to fulfillment.

  Her happiness knew no bounds. Now she was a woman, utterly and completely. Seductress, sorcerer, wife. She was part of the grand scheme of all natural things. She was part of the earth and the sky and the waters and the great mysterious plan that Kibatante had designed for all of the earth’s creatures.

  * * *

  Trevor awoke at his usual time, shortly after dawn. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was sheer gold netting flowing from a hook above him, then the palms and orchids, burned-out candle stubs and melted wax everywhere. With his mind still fogged from sleep, he thought he was in the jungle until he felt the warm naked body pressed against his side. He looked at Joya snuggled against him.

  Exhausted, he put his hand over his eyes and rubbed them. Not only was his new bride inquisitive, but she had been very inventive last night. Afterward, when she finally fell asleep in his arms, he had lain awake thinking about the obvious consequences of what they had done together.

  Joya lay sleeping on her stomach, naked, vulnerable, beautiful. He lifted a strand of her hair, tempted to kiss the nape of her neck, but was afraid that if he woke her, she would want to make love yet again.

  What good were his intentions to keep her from becoming pregnant now, when he had already lost control?

  His trip would definitely have to be postponed, at least until her monthly came—or did not come. His seed might have already taken hold.

  Although he didn’t find the idea as startling or as objectionable as he had thought he would, until he knew for certain whether Joya was actually with child or not, he wanted to keep the rest of his life on course.

  Carefully, he sat up so as not to disturb her, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and moved stealthily to his dressing room. If he hurried, he would arrive at the warehouse close to his usual time. />
  Within minutes he was dressed and ready. With his shoes in hand, he tiptoed across the room and turned the doorknob, but the door would not open. He tried again and then remembered he had not seen the key last night. Someone had locked them in from the outside. If this was some kind of prank, he was not laughing.

  The bedclothes rustled behind him. He turned around and found Joya sitting up, dreamy-eyed and smiling. She was completely at ease even though she was bare to the waist and lovely in the soft morning light.

  “Good morning, Trevor. What are you doing with your clothes on?”

  “Going to work. I tried not to disturb you.”

  “Work?” Her smile faded, taking her dimples with it. “The door is locked from the outside. Do you happen to know anything about this?”

  She crossed her arms below her breasts and was frowning fiercely.

  “Joya?”

  “Perhaps Sims locked us in.”

  “And why would Sims do that?”

  “Because I asked him to.”

  Trevor walked over to the bed. He tried but could not resist touching her. He traced his hand along her cheek, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. Then he pulled the bedclothes up, covering the tempting sight, and tucked them beneath her arms.

  “I know you have what you consider a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why you would ask Sims to lock us in.”

  “Of course I do. On Matarenga it is the custom for a newly wed husband and wife to go to a secret location in the jungle and live together for a month in a marriage hut. Since we are not even moving out of Mandeville House, I thought that we should at least stay together undisturbed.”

  “For how long?”

  “For a month, of course.” She looked up at him through lowered lashes. “To insure the success of our marriage.”

  Their marriage, Trevor decided, was already far more successful than he had expected it to be at this point.

  “I have to go to work to ensure the success of our business ventures, so that none of us starves. Speaking of starving, I’m hungry for breakfast. Did you and Sims have some sort of plan worked out that would keep us fed while we were locked in?”

  “Breakfast will arrive at eight o’clock. Although it will cause me great worry, I’ll tell him to let you out, but only because you think it is so necessary to go to work today.”

  “It won’t be eight o’clock for another hour and a half.”

  She pulled back the covers invitingly. “Good. I think I know what we can do to fill the time.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  MANDEVILLE HOUSE

  One month later…

  Adelaide stepped outside her room for the first time in days and stood in the long hall listening for signs of life. The house was quiet as a tomb. As cold, too. The late afternoon weather was just as dismal, cool, gray, and dreary. She would have been warmer in bed, but had tired of sitting in her room feeling ignored and abandoned, and so she decided it was past time she stopped feigning illness and took an active part in ridding her home of Trevor’s wife.

  Trevor’s wife. The very idea that he had married Joya Penn made her mad enough to spit. Worse yet, the entire mess was the fault of her own stupid scheme gone awry.

  She started down the hall, leaning heavily on one of her husband’s old canes, not because she needed it, but because she thought it would gamer her more sympathy. There was nothing wrong with her that fresh surroundings and a bit of activity would not cure. The fact that she grew tired earlier each evening and that her left hand was numb now and again did not bother her as much as knowing she had failed.

  She would give Trevor the world if she could. Hadn’t she always done right by him? Hadn’t she raised him to take the helm of Mandeville Imports?

  She had always wanted what was best for her grandson, and what was best for Trevor was not some upstart little baggage from Africa. He might think he wanted Joya now, but he would soon forget her.

  Even if she was a tad ill, she refused to die until Trevor was free to live his life the way she had always planned it.

  Today the upstairs hall seemed longer and darker than she remembered. She told herself to have Sims’s head for not lighting the lamps. One would think he had to pay for the gas.

  She stacked her hands on top of the cane and paused to catch her breath, ignoring the heaviness in her chest.

  Damn Trevor for letting the chit get to him. He was hot for the girl now—no doubt Clara Hayworth had passed on all the tricks she had used to seduce men.

  She wondered whether Trevor thought himself in love with his new wife. She had seen the undisguised desire in his eyes last evening when he and Joya had come to her room to pay a short visit. Her grandson could not take his eyes off the girl. He had been caring and solicitous toward her: ushering her into the room with his hand possessively riding her waist, sharing the settee, vulgarly sitting shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

  She could not help but notice the way their hands touched and their eyes met and held. It was enough to make her want to scream with frustration.

  When they left her, she had to calm herself by remembering that the girl was young and impressionable, while she herself was possessed of the kind of fortitude it had taken to keep Mandeville Imports afloat all those years after her husband’s death and again after James proved to have no head for business. She had managed to hold on until Trevor had assumed the responsibility.

  Surely, after all she had accomplished in her lifetime, she could triumph over a simple, backward girl that Clara Hayworth, housemaid and whore, had raised.

  She started walking again and slowly made her way along the hall and then the stairs. When she was halfway down, Sims appeared at the bottom of the wide staircase. She shooed the old butler away when he offered to help her, but he remained two steps just below her until she reached the foyer.

  “I don’t know why you are watching me like that,” she snapped. “If I fall, I am likely to kill you on the way down.”

  “Would you like tea in the drawing room as usual, madam?”

  “First I would like a word with my daughter-in-law. Have you seen her?”

  He was quiet for a moment, obviously hesitant to tell her where Joya was. Good, she thought. The girl was up to something and Sims, the old coot, was protecting her.

  “Well, man?”

  “She is in the kitchen, madam.”

  “I thought I told her to stay away from the servants.”

  “I’ll go and get her, madam, if you would like to wait in the drawing room.”

  “Don’t try to dismiss me like some unwanted caller. I’ll find her myself, thank you, Sims. I have not been in the kitchen for years.”

  “Then I’ll just go ahead and announce you, madam.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind.”

  When she stepped into the kitchen, tiring after the long walk, she found Joya happily chatting with Mrs. Billingsley and the cook, a rotund Hungarian woman with a peasant’s stocky build, a head full of black hair and the shadow of a moustache on her upper lip.

  The two women were perched on tall stools near a workbench where Joya stood up to her elbows in bread dough. An apron smudged with bits of dough was tied over her dress. Flour smeared her face and dusted her hair. There was a dirt smudge across the bridge of her nose.

  The girl was boisterously laughing and talking, punching at the mound of dough as the other women looked on. A fire glowed in the huge fireplace as pots of aromatic foods simmered on the stove. Adelaide didn’t appreciate the warm and cozy scene in the least.

  Mrs. Billingsley and the cook jumped to their feet as soon as she walked into the room. Joya looked up and smiled.

  “I’m learning to make bread,” she announced, completely unaware that she had overstepped the bounds of propriety by miles.

  “We’ll give you some privacy, ma’am.” Mrs. Billingsley was apparently ready to grab the cook and slip out of the room.

  “Stay.” Adelaide felt a heady surg
e of power when both serving women visibly paled and remained rooted to the floor.

  Joya’s smile slowly faded. She pulled her hands out of the dough and tried to wipe them on her apron.

  “You have absolutely no idea how improper your behavior is, do you, Joya?”

  The girl’s cheeks flamed. Adelaide glanced at the housekeeper and cook. Both women were obviously very uncomfortable. Adelaide was greatly pleased.

  “Is there something wrong with making bread?” Joya asked.

  “You have no idea how not to be an embarrassment to him.”

  “How is this embarrassing to Trevor? This is honest work. A wife should know how to cook for her husband.”

  “We have servants to do that. You should be learning how to direct them to do the menial tasks, not associating with them. You should be neatly dressed, with your hair combed, ready to receive callers.”

  She walked closer to Joya, looking her over from head to toe. “What if someone came to pay a visit and found you looking like a scullery maid? What others think of you reflects upon my grandson. I thought you cared about Trevor.”

  Joya spread her hands wide. “I love Trevor with all my heart. Where is the shame in baking? There is no one here to see me but Mrs. Billingsley and Cook. No one is coming to call.”

  “Which is another problem. You have no friends. You have no ties to London society or even to other wives of wealthy businessmen.”

  “I have not been here long enough to make many friends, except for Lady Cecily, who has been very kind.”

  “Lady Cecily is not worth discussing.”

  “This morning I finished repotting the orchids as a surprise for Trevor.”

  “Perhaps that is how your dress and your face became soiled, which doesn’t please me in the least.”

  “I’ll try to do better.”

  When she was certain the girl was upset, she decided to go for blood.