Her Defiant Heart

by Goodman, Jo

  Jenny complied. The hard edge that self-denial had carved in Christian's face was strangely beautiful. Just looking at him heightened her sensitivity to his touch. Her breathing was irregular now. She felt as if she was sipping air, drawing it in in tiny measures with a sibilant sound that was foreign to her.

  "Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say it once."

  "Christian."

  "Oh, God." He sat back between her parted thighs and slipped his hands beneath her buttocks. Even while her back arched upward, her body clearly wanting him, he felt tension elsewhere as she tried to withdraw from what was happening. "Don't look in the mirror. Look at me. Stay with me, Jenny Holland." Then he guided himself into her.

  The carefully measured thrust nearly stripped Christian of control. She was so narrow, so tight. She lifted her hips, pushed into him, and it was done. He was hers, filling her with his rigid, swollen cock. She was his, accepting the length of him, holding him so perfectly that it seemed they were meant to know each other in just this way.

  Jenny felt her body stretching to accommodate Christian's entry. There was pain in the beginning, but it was gone, and then forgotten. The ache of wanting returned, the need for something that was beyond her experience but nearly within her reach.

  Clutching Christian's shoulders, Jenny bit down on her lip. "The burning," she whispered. "I still..."

  "I know." He brushed his lips against hers. "Give me a moment. Don't move yet."

  Except for the contractions she could not help, Jenny held herself still. It was the most difficult thing he had asked of her. Waves of heat flooded her body, and she wanted to ride the sensation, move with it and against Christian. He filled her, yes, but it was not enough. The tiny beads of perspiration on Christian's forehead, the taut line of his mouth, the dark liquid centers of his normally cool, unaffected eyes made Jenny believe he shared her feeling. He wanted something more as well, and soon they would have it.

  "Now, Jenny," he said hoarsely in the manner of a man surrendering to a force greater than himself. "I can't hold... wanted you to be ready... can't wait."

  Neither could Jenny. As Christian's hips ground into hers, she abandoned herself to the rhythm he taught her body. She arched, raising herself to meet his thrusts, pulling back each time he withdrew. Their joining was rough and hungry, almost angry with intensity. Her fingers sought purchase among the blankets and, finding them inadequate, she raised her arms above her head and gripped the brass head rails. Her posture was so pagan, so erotically vulnerable, that Christian was nearly undone by her exquisite offering.

  Jenny had begun to believe that Christian had lied to her. The burning he had promised to assuage was getting worse, not better. Where their bodies joined the heat was unbearable. It was only gradually that she became aware that it was changing. She felt herself being lifted, being urged upward to a place where the fires could be extinguished. Christian was her guide, and she followed wherever he led. The place where he finally brought her made it impossible for Jenny to regret the journey.

  Her legs tangled in his, muscles rigid with tension. She rubbed against him, and tight, indrawn breaths gave sound to her quickening excitement. Her head moved from side to side, but not in denial. Her movement captured the increasingly abandoned rhythm of their bodies. The sparks that skittered along her skin were cast off and scattered like stars. Her breasts quivered as Christian thrust into her again and again. She felt him drawing heat from her body as he made her acknowledge the pleasure he could give her. His name became a throaty cry that could not be held back as pure sensation rippled through her. Moments later he joined her, finding his own release and spilling his seed deep into her womb.

  Jenny's white-knuckled grip on the brass rails eased. She drew her hands away slowly, but she made no move to touch Christian. He was lying on top of her, his heart hammering against his chest. His breath was warm against the curve of her neck, and Jenny could feel faint bursts of air on her skin.

  Christian raised himself on one elbow after he withdrew. "It's all right," he said, reaching for the sheet that was balled up behind him. "I'm covering both of us now. You can open your eyes again." One corner of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile as Jenny waited until she felt the sheet across her breasts before she took his suggestion. "Your body is lovely, Jenny." He felt the familiar tap into the pain of not being able to paint her, and for now he ignored it. "You should not be ashamed of it."

  "I'm not," she said quietly, pointing to the mirror, "but neither am I so vain that I need to admire myself in that."

  "You were quite taken with yourself earlier," he said. He grinned, remembering how she had turned and posed, flashing her legs as she took stock of her reflection.

  Jenny flushed. "I don't know why I did that. It must have been the brandy. I've never had it before. I usually only drink wine."

  "Brandy's stronger than that, but it doesn't account for your condition. I'd be willing to wager that Amalie slipped something into your drink." Jenny started to sit up, but Christian stopped her. He laid his arm across her chest and caressed the side of her neck with his fingertips. "You really are quite lovely, you know," he said, matter of fact. "And then there is the way you seem so... so unaware of it. Amalie Chatham, however, is a collector of fine things. In addition to her art and emeralds, her dainty japanned boxes and her Paris gowns, our dear Mrs. Chatham knows how to choose young women. She has... er, scouts, shall we say, scattered over the breadth of this—"

  "We shall say pimps," Jenny said. "That's what you meant, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but I am rarely certain of the breadth of your vocabulary."

  "Yes, well, I entertain no doubts about yours."

  He chuckled. "Anyway, Amalie has men who procure women for her. I believe that most of the women come willingly, yet I've heard of exceptions. I imagine that she thought herself very fortunate when you presented yourself at her door. Even I might have questioned her business acumen if she had let you slip away."

  Jenny swallowed with difficulty. Her mouth was dry. "She wanted me?" she asked. "For this house? To work for her... to..."

  "Well," she said, coming to terms with it. "I have done it anyway, haven't I?"

  "Wait," Christian said, his brows drawing together. "It wasn't—isn't—like that. What happened between us doesn't have anything to do with Amalie or this house."

  "Doesn't it?" she asked, regarding him frankly. "Did you not name me the whore of your choosing?"

  Christian had known he would regret those words even as they spilled from his lips. He had hoped they would not come back to him so soon. If there was a defense for them, he did not know it. "Yes, that is exactly what I said."

  "And?"

  "You are not a whore."

  "Not then."

  "Not now. You know I did not ask for you. I didn't know you were below stairs. I was with Maggie, remember? You were an unexpected arrival."

  "But you knew I had been drugged."

  "Not at first. I thought you were drunk. You were about as coherent and steady as one when you announced yourself. Do you recall that you made yourself available to me first?"

  Jenny drew in a sharp breath. "That is not true."

  "Then we have very different recollections. You wanted me."

  "You made certain I did."

  "Would you rather have suffered the effects of Amelie's drug?"

  She hesitated. "I think so, yes."

  He ignored her, leaning forward so that his face was closer to hers. "Little liar," he said softly. "They call it the itch. I've heard that it burns from the inside out, that it makes a woman desperate to have a man between her legs. Any man, Jenny. And I am told the itch doesn't go away without one. You needed me tonight, and... and I needed you. We both benefited from seeking our satisfaction together. What we did in this bed does not make you a whore. It also does not make me a villain."

  The images he invoked in his husky, implacable whisper made Jenny's skin prickle. "It's not true that
I would have gone to any man."

  Christian wondered how she meant for him to construe that. To protect himself, he chose the less complicated interpretation. "We'll never know, will we? You are here now, with me, and what is done, is done."

  Jenny simply stared at him. It took her a moment to find her voice. "What is done, is done? How tidy for you, Mr. Marshall, but you already know I possess a disordered mind."

  "Jenny."

  "No. You should not speak. Everything you say is more clutter." She started to rise, but he was having none of it. He laid a hand on her shoulder. Jenny lay back and closed her eyes. "I should never have come here. I wish Mrs. Brandywine had..." Her voice trailed off. The echo of her words came back to her and her eyes flew open. "Mrs. Brandywine!" she whispered. "How could I have not...?" One hand went to her mouth. From behind it, she asked, "Did you know? Did I tell you?"

  "Jenny?" Christian went entirely still. "What are you saying? What about Mrs. B.?"

  "She asked for you."

  "Yes," he said, relaxing slightly. "You told me she sent you."

  "I did?" She lowered her hand, revealing a deeply carved frown. "I cannot recall."

  "You were not yourself then, and you were not clear about the purpose. I assumed it was—"

  Jenny threw off Christian's hand. This time he let her go. She sat up, tugging on the sheet. "She's hurt. Mrs. Brandywine is hurt. She slipped on the icy walk and broke her shinbone. Mary Margaret went for Dr. Turner while I sat with Mrs. Brandywine, but when she started asking for you, we—that is, the rest of the staff and I—thought you should know about the accident." She lifted her hands, palms up, and said helplessly, "There was no one to fetch you except me."

  Jenny kept talking as Christian flung off the sheet and jumped out of bed. Unconcerned with his nakedness, he began gathering his clothes, occasionally throwing something of Jenny's in her direction.

  "I would have told you right away," she said. "I know I would have if it hadn't been for what Mrs. Chatham did to me. I was willing to write out a message, but she was more interested in giving me something to drink."

  Christian fastened his drawers, pulling the string tight. "Why would she drug you if she knew you were here with a message for me?" He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until Jenny answered him.

  "But I never had the chance to tell her who I was or who the message was for." She frowned, trying to remember. "At least I don't think I did. No, I didn't. We were interrupted and she left and then I did."

  "I know," he said dryly. "You didn't like her. You made certain you told me that. Several times."

  Jenny sat up on her knees, clutching the sheet in front of her. She did nothing with the clothes he tossed at her. "Please, Mr. Marshall, I swear I would have told you about Mrs. Brandywine if my head had been clear."

  "Do you think I'm angry? I'm not. I believe you," he said. And he did. Her distress was genuine. He pointed to the clothes that were scattered across the bed. "Get dressed now."

  Jenny hardly heard him. She was still concentrating on the sequence of events after leaving Amalie's office. "I was already feeling thick-headed and awkward when I went through her suite looking for another exit. I found a way out and got as far as the other side of her hedgerow when I remembered I was supposed to see you. I had forgotten already, you see."

  "I do see," he said. "Now will you get dressed?"

  "Turn your back."

  "What?"

  "Turn your back," she repeated.

  "Isn't that rather like shutting the stable door after the..." He stopped, seeing that she was quite—if absurdly—serious.

  "Oh, very well." Christian turned away and jammed his legs into his black evening trousers.

  Jenny dropped the sheet and pulled her chemise over her head. She sighed, seeing that the wide strap had been torn where it met the scooped neckline. "My cloak and scarf are in the hall linen cupboard," she said, rolling on her stockings. "I hid them behind a stack of sheets."

  "Of course you did." He held up a hand behind him, trying to forestall her explanation. "No, I do not want to hear. I'm sure you had your reasons."

  "I did. I didn't want anyone on this floor to suspect I didn't belong. It worked, because when I met Maggie she thought I was one of the maids." She paused and added pointedly, "Not one of the whores."

  "And she still sent you to me?" Christian could not unravel that one until he remembered calling out to Jenny when Maggie was in his arms. He supposed he was fortunate Maggie hadn't scratched his eyes out for that lapse. "Never mind," he said, fastening the studs in his snowy white dress shirt. "I know why she did it. Are you ready yet?"

  "Almost." She laced up her black ankle boots and then pulled on her gown. Several of the buttons were missing. The modest collar gaped just above her breasts. Jenny scooted off the bed, holding the fabric closed with one hand. "I'm dressed. We can go now."

  "Wait here. I'll get your cloak."

  "And scarf."

  "And scarf," he repeated. "I also want to see where Amalie is. It may not be such a simple thing to get you out of here, not if she has decided you are to be one of her girls."

  "You would not let her do that, would you?"

  Christian's brief glance in Jenny's direction was pained. "It seems you've forgotten the circumstances of our first meeting. Do you really think I'd..." He broke off, angry with himself for even bothering to explain. "Never mind. I will not be gone long." He shrugged into his black swallow-tailed evening coat, unlocked the door, and stepped into the hallway without sparing her another look.

  Dora heard the sound of a door opening and closing behind her as she was escorting Stephen to the main staircase. She prayed it was the maid leaving Maggie's room and not Christian Marshall. Dora did not want to think about the consequences of such a meeting.

  As it happened, she did not have to think about it. Events simply started to unfold, and she was powerless to interfere.

  Stephen gripped Dora's arm just above the elbow and squeezed her hard enough to make her wince. "It's Marshall," he said, looking down the hallway over his left shoulder. "He had her."

  "Oh, God. Do not say anything."

  "Come with me," he said under his breath. "I want to talk to him." Stephen backed up one step, pulling Dora with him. They began walking down the hall toward her room again.

  Christian paused beside the linen cupboard when he saw Stephen Bennington strutting toward him, his arm linked around Dora's with his typical possessiveness. Christian's acquaintance with Stephen was limited to sharing a membership at the Yacht Club, attending some of the same social functions, and the occasional horse race out on Harlem Lane.

  In the main he knew only two things about Stephen Bennington. One, the man dressed like a peacock. And two, Stephen had bought his way out of the draft during the war. In the first instance Christian was prepared to be open-minded. Stephen Bennington could dress any way he wished, even if he chose checked short coats, striped trousers, and bold yellow vests, and looked more as if he were wearing an argument than following the dictates of current fashion.

  It was the second thing that Christian knew about Stephen that still had the power to trip his loathing for the man. Although there were hundreds, even thousands, of others who had taken the opening the law gave them and paid someone else to fight in their place, Christian still had no stomach for them in general and Stephen Bennington in particular.

  Christian's hand casually dropped away from the linen cupboard door, and he gave a brief nod as Stephen and Dora approached. "Bennington. Miss Dora. Happy New Year." He made to step forward, deciding to go in search of Amalie, but Stephen blocked his path. "Is there some problem?" he asked, looking from Stephen to Dora. Christian did not have to stretch his powers of observation to conclude that young Bennington had imbibed well beyond his tolerance and that Dora was uncharacteristically nervous. He also did not miss the beginnings of a bruise on Dora's cheek and the faint swelling below her eye.

  "No," said Stephen, p
inching Dora's dimpled elbow to keep her quiet. "No problem."

  "Then perhaps you would move out of my way?"

  Stephen wavered slightly on his feet, and it was Dora who actually steadied him. "In a moment. I was wondering about the high-stepper I saw go into Maggie's room earlier. Couldn't help but notice you just came from there, so I thought I'd ask about the girl. Is she available now?"

  Dora was relieved that Stephen had had the presence of mind to lie about how he'd actually seen the girl. She relaxed a little.

  "She might be," Christian said indifferently, "though you'll have to find her yourself. She left the room before I did."

  Disappointed, Stephen's mouth turned down at the corners. "Damn, but she looked to be an exquisite bit of tenderloin. Did you have her and Maggie together?"

  Christian saw Dora blanch at the crudeness of Stephen's expression and his question. Her presence, and the fact that Bennington was obviously drunk, kept Christian from putting Stephen face down on the carpet. "If you'll excuse me," he said. "I am looking for Amalie."

  Dora gathered her courage and pulled Stephen to one side so Christian could pass. "Amalie isn't here now," she told him. "She and Mr. Todd both had to step out. Maggie's the hostess in Amalie's place."

  That further explained why Maggie hadn't returned to her own room, Christian thought, and also why Dora had to put up with Bennington. John Todd would have shown him the door for striking one of Amalie's girls.

  Stephen smirked, chuckling under his breath. "So you didn't have them both." He winked at Dora. "Somehow I knew that."

  Christian let that comment pass, supposing that Stephen was recommending he try a ménage a trois. "Dora, would you like me to escort young Bennington here to the door?"

  "Now see here, Marshall," Stephen said, drawing back his shoulders and throwing out his chest. "You don't have any right to—"

  "It's all right, Mr. Marshall," Dora said, trying to keep the peace. "Stephen was on his way out when he saw you. He just wanted to know about the girl." She made another attempt to urge Stephen along, but he pulled away from her. Dora immediately dropped her hands to her sides and stepped backward.