"We made love," he corrected her quietly.
Jessie snorted. Stuart shrugged. She could feel the movement of his shoulders with her back muscles, snuggled up against his chest as she was. Her now decently covered bottom was nestled against that part of him that had hurt her, and her legs were draped over his. It would have been a cozy posture—if he had 229
not had to hold her in place with his hands clamped around her wrists so that her arms formed an X across her chest.
"Maybe you fornicated," he said in her ear. "I made love."
"Love!" The single word was scoffing.
"Love. I love you, Jessie."
"Hah!"
There was a moment of silence. Then, astonishingly, Stuart chuckled. The sound was wry, but still it was, unmistakably, a chuckle.
"Do you know how many women—full-grown, sophisticated, very beautiful women—would have given their eyeteeth to hear me say that? But I bare my soul for the first time in my life to a wet-behind-the-ears miss, and what does the object of my passion say? 'Hah!' "
"I don't believe you!"
"Why would I lie?"
"To get me to—to—you know—again."
This time he laughed out loud. Despite her imprisoned wrists, Jessie managed to reward that infuriating chortle with an elbow to his ribs.
"Ow!"
"Stop laughing!"
"Oh, Jessie, I'm not laughing. At least, not at you. Would you please, for just a moment, use that very admirable brain you possess and answer me this: if all I wanted was to—fornicate, to use your word for it—do you really think I'd have trouble finding willing partners? You're more than lovely, darling, but ordinarily my taste does not run to just-hatched chicks."
"I am not a just-hatched chick!"
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"Were you lying when you told me you loved me? Maybe you just wanted to use me for—you know."
He was teasing her now. How could he laugh after what he had done? "That isn't funny!"
"This whole damned mess isn't funny. Jessie, you told me you love me. Did you mean it?"
Every traumatized nerve ending in her body screamed at her to say no, but Jessie found that, cuddled on his lap as she was with his voice warm and disturbing in her ear, she could not quite bring herself to lie about something as important as that.
"Yes!" The word emerged through gritted teeth.
"If you love me, why don't you believe me when I say I love you?" He sounded genuinely curious. Jessie shifted impatiently in his lap, only to find herself held tight. For a minute she had almost forgotten that he held her prisoner, so comfortable was she.
"Because you're so—so ..." Jessie's voice trailed off. It was impossible to put into words all the things Stuart was.
"So what?" He was not going to leave it alone. All right. She would tell him. She would spell the whole thing out for him, and let him maintain then that he loved her. For all he called her a just-hatched chick, she was not naive enough to believe that a man like Stuart could actually fall in love with the Yazoo Valley wild child. No doubt his disgusting male urges had driven him to fornicate with her, and he was seeking to ease her distress by dressing up in pretty words what had happened between them.
It was unnecessary. However unpleasant it might be, she would rather hear the truth than soothing lies.
"So handsome, and so smart, and so—so charming, and . . ." 231
"Stop, Jessie, you'll unman me." Despite the jesting note in his voice, she had the feeling that he meant it. Then he continued.
"Even if all that is true, why could I not love you?" Jessie chewed her lower lip. Her shortcomings were many, and always before in her life they had been used as ammunition to wound her. But this was Stuart. He had hurt her physically, but still she loved him more than anyone in the world. He must not pretend to love her if he didn't. It was important that there be truth between them, however bitter she might find it.
"Because I'm—I'm well enough, I suppose, but certainly no match for you when it comes to looks, and I've never been anywhere farther than Jackson, and I—I like dogs and horses better than people, and I don't know how to dress, or do my hair, or dance, or anything."
"Darling, did it never occur to you that you are seeing yourself through a mirror fashioned by your stepmother's spite?" The notion startled Jessie. She started to say something, but Stuart silenced her with a gesture. When he continued, his voice was very soft. "Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you? I see a young lady with hair the color of polished mahogany, masses of hair so thick that she could ride through the streets like Lady Godiva with her modesty intact. I see porcelain skin, big, innocent cocoa-brown eyes, and a face that's as delicate of feature as a cameo. I see gorgeous shoulders, breasts that are luscious enough to make any man worthy of the name lick his lips, and a waist—"
"Stuart!" Jessie protested, scandalized at the intimate turn his description was taking.
"Don't interrupt," he responded severely, and went on. "Where was I? Oh, yes, a waist that's small enough not to need the stays 232
she rarely wears anyway—oh, don't think I haven't noticed!—
and a sassy little derriere that makes me want to grab it every time it flounces past."
"Stuart!"
"Hush, I'm not finished. To sum up all those distracting physical attributes, when I look at you I see an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. But, Jessie . . ."
"Yes?"
"That's not why I love you." "It's not?"
"No." He paused for a theatrical moment. When he resumed, he was almost whispering in her ear. "I love you because you're gallant. You've taken every handicap life has thrown your way and emerged triumphant. You've known more adversity in eighteen years than most young ladies will know in a lifetime, yet you've survived with your courage and your sweetness intact. What you are, my Jessie, is a rara avis, and that is why I love you."
As he ended, his lips caressed the delicate shell of her ear. Jessie sat motionless for a moment, hardly t('fling his touch, while she mentally reeled beneath the impact of his words. Perhaps, just perhaps, he did love her.
It was the most beautiful thought she had ever had.
"Do you mean it, Stuart?" she asked humbly.
"I mean it, Jessie." His lips slid from her ear to nudge aside her hair and nibble at the silky column of her neck. A shiver coursed through Jessie's body. She rested her head against his shoulder to give him easier access to her neck.
"You're not just saying that to get me to—to make love with you again?"
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"Praise the Lord, at least we've gotten past 'fornicating.' No, Jess, I am not just saying that." Something that sounded suspiciously like amusement laced his words. Eyes narrowing, Jessie slanted a look back at him. He took advantage of the slight fuming of her head to recapture her mouth.
His kiss was soft and very sweet, and completely look her mind off the ache between her thighs. Jessie shifted in his lap so that she could put her arms around his neck, and closed her eyes. As he deepened the kiss she sighed into his mouth. When she d reamed of Stuart, and of his kisses, this was how she dreamed that he would kiss her. The hard passion with which he had kissed her previously had gentled. His lips were soft as they moved over hers, warm and undemanding. Jessie discovered that the faint taste of whiskey that lingered on his lips and tongue was not so repulsive after all. In fact, she was quite coming to like the taste again.
He took his time with her mouth, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue, probing gently between them and then retreating until her mouth parted of its own accord for him. Still he played with her mouth, until her breathing grew uneven and she quivered with impatience for him to deepen the kiss even more. When he retreated yet again, she bit down on that tantalizing tongue to punish it for its teasing.
"Ouch!" he protested, and lifted his head. Jessie pulled him down to her with a tug on the curls at the nape of his neck.
"Kiss me properly," she commanded, and he obliged. As h
is mouth claimed hers once more, Jessie sighed with satisfaction. He was kissing her as he'd taught her to want to be kissed, kissing her so that the now familiar hot longing rose up inside her to initiate the melting of her bones. Despite the fact that she 234
knew where all this kissing must lead, despite that pain that she knew awaited her at the culmination of the sweet clamoring that sprang to life in her veins, she could no more stop herself from responding to his touch than she could stop herself from breathing. She loved him. How she loved him! If it was a woman's lot to be hurt by the man she loved, then so be it. He kissed her thoroughly as her head fell back against his shoulder in a gesture of absolute surrender. One arm encircled her back, supporting her as she leaned against its strength. The other hand stroked the soft skin of her neck, caressed her shoulders, cupped her breasts. His thumb rubbed over her nipples, abrasive through the thin cloth that covered them, and the growing heat inside her quickened urgently. Instinctively her breasts thrust into his sheltering palm. Her nipples ached for his touch. But his hand was already sliding down, down through the valley between her breasts, down over the sensitized skin of her belly, down, while she quivered and quaked and burned. It was only when that hand stopped to press hard against the secret place at the apex of her thighs that the memory of pain came flooding back.
Despite her brave resolution, Jessie stiffened. Stuart had hurt her there. Her lashes flickered, then lifted.
"No, please," she whispered, and when he would have kissed her, she avoided his mouth.
Her soft protest and the rejection of his kiss smote him like a blow. He lifted his head just enough so that he could look down at her. Jessie's face was tilted toward him, her mouth soft and rosy with his kisses, her head resting against his shoulder, the thick fall of her hair spilling like dark, waving silk around them to puddle on the grain sacks and the floor. Those cocoa-brown 235
eyes were wide with uncertainty, remembered pain and present fear lending dark shadows to their depths. Faint blue smudges beneath her eyes attested to both the lateness of the hour and the trauma he had put her through. The moonlight shimmering over her features lent her a haunting beauty that he knew would linger in his mind long after this night had passed. Her arms were looped around his neck, trusting in their very passivity in the face of the pain he had already inflicted and, for all she knew, meant to inflict on her again. The white frill at the neck of her nightdress exposed the tender hollow of her throat. The thin cotton gown clung to the round firmness of her tip-tilted young breasts. Pert nipples thrust at the cloth, drawing his eyes. Her wrapper had come untied at some point, leaving her nightdress to act alone as a flimsy veil for her form. The soft white cotton was more opaque than not, but still he could make out the gentle curve of her belly, the lissome line of her legs, and the dark triangle between them.
He had hurt her, though he'd never meant to. Guilt coursed through him as he recognized that. He'd done much this night that he'd never meant to do: he had never meant to bed her, to take her maidenhead, to make her his. But the combination of whiskey and her promise to wed another man had proved explosive, ripping the lid off his unaccustomed nobility and setting free the fierce hunger for her that had festered inside him for so long.
He had gotten himself drunk, and then she had made him angry. Along with his temper he had lost his good intentions and in a fit of passionate madness had taken what he wanted. Now he was sober, but despite the despicable nature of what he had done in taking her virginity, he could not truly regret it. Not at the 236
moment, anyway. Maybe when dawn came and he was no longer dazzled by moonlight and kisses, he would curse himself for the selfish bastard he had once again proved himself to be. But not now. Not when the girl he loved lay across his lap, her arms looped around his neck, her body all but naked, her eyes dark with doubt and fear and yet, transcending all, aglow with love for him.
If anyone else in his life had ever truly loved him, he couldn't at the moment remember it.
His eyes were full of Jessie, and his heart was full of Jessie. She was everything he had ever wanted, and he had made her his.
Somewhere the gods might be laughing, but he would take what he could get for now and worry about the morrow on the morrow.
Just one thing he promised himself, and her: because he had hurt her with his first claiming, he meant to take good care that neither he nor anyone else hurt her again.
For better or worse, the deed was done and she now belonged to him. And if he knew nothing else, Clive McClintock knew how to take right good care of himself and all that was his.
XXXIII
Jess. Let me teach you about loving." "I—I—you already did." Jessie's eyes flickered away from his. Her passion was fast ebbing as the memory of pain reasserted itself. With the best will in the world, she didn't think she could submit herself to that again. Then she looked back up at him. He was facing the win237
dow, and she could read his expression quite clearly. For once his face was open to her, his eyes tender as they met hers, his mouth not quite smiling. The moonlight painted a silver wash over the night-black waves of his hair and glinted off his azure eyes. The exquisitely carved symmetry of his features was bathed in a soft glow, giving him the unearthly handsomeness of a young god come to earth to woo a mortal maiden. His neck was strong beneath her hands, his shoulders and chest broad and solid as she rested against them. Beneath her bottom she could feel the strength in the powerful muscles of his thighs—and the growing hardness of the man-thing between them.
"I—I just can't," she added miserably, and hung her head. To her surprise he hugged her, wrapping both arms around her and rocking her back and forth like a hurt child. Then he loosened his hold, and tilted her chin up to drop a quick kiss on her mouth.
"It won't hurt again, you know. Only the first time hurts for females, I suppose to discourage them in case they should be tempted to fall into a life of depravity. But after that . . . after that, Jessie, it can be so good."
"If you don't mind, I'll just take your word for it." He grinned then, and the effect was like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. The sheer beauty of the man temporarily dazzled Jessie. She began to think that maybe she could, to please him, after all.
But maybe she couldn't, if it was going to hurt.
"We can just skip the part that you don't like, for now," he said obligingly. "Maybe we can start by getting you out of that very fetching nightdress. I have a fancy to see you naked in the moonlight."
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Shocked, Jessie clutched the neck of her nightdress and vehemently shook her head.
Stuart looked her up and down with a smile. "That's out for now, too, hmm? All right, my shy little violet, how about if we reverse things and I let you see me naked in the moonlight?" The leer he gave her was absurdly exaggerated. Suddenly it occurred to Jessie that he was teasing her. Her brows snapped together, and she scowled at him.
"You're doing it deliberately," she accused. "What?" He looked the very soul of innocence. "Embarrassing me!" "Not I." But Jessie knew better. He had purposefully set out to ruffle her feathers, and in so doing restore some vestige of her fighting spirit. Aggravating though his method was, it had achieved its goal. She no longer felt so—tremulous. Her scowl eased, and her eyes ran down as much of his body as she could see, which wasn't all that much since she was sitting on his lap. The idea of seeing him naked in the moonlight was intriguing, to say the least. Never had she even dared to wonder what he looked like naked, although . . .
"I've—occasionally—wondered—what you look like without your shirt," she confessed, running the last words together in a rush. Her eyes fell away from his as maidenly modesty threatened to get the upper hand over her sudden boldness.
"Have you, now? I'm entirely at your disposal, Madam Curiosity. Why don't you find out?"
Jessie looked up at him again, sorely tempted but more than a little uncertain how to—or if she should—proceed. Seeing her dilemma, Stuart
covered her hands with his and lifted them to where the first shirt button was fastened, some little way below his open collar.
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"Well, go on," he encouraged her when her fingers rested against the rumpled linen covering his chest but made no move to do anything else.
"You want me to ... do it?" It was very close to a squeak.
"You do know how to undo a button?"
That urbane question caused Jessie to shoot him a look. He almost sounded mocking, but the expression in his eyes was far from mockery. They were bright and glittering, possessive, hungry—hungry for her. He wanted her fiercely. It was there in his eyes.
The idea that she could so affect him gave Jessie the courage she needed. Taking a deep breath, she shifted her gaze to his chest, and her fingers began to clumsily work that first small button free.
By the time she had undone three, Jessie was so distracted by the widening expanse of chest her handiwork had exposed that she quite forgot what she was about. Her fingers abandoned the diminished row of buttons to reach out, tentatively, to touch the whorls of black hair she'd revealed. The solid wall of muscle radiated heat. Jessie probed further, touching the silk-over-steel skin of his chest, running a questing finger over the wide V she had opened in his shirt. His mouth tightened, but he made no other move. Jessie got the impression that he was deliberately holding himself on a tight rein so as not to frighten her. The idea that he would not seek to reciprocate her exploration of his body in kind made her bolder. Stroking the hair-roughened skin, Jessie grew more intoxicated by the moment. She loved the way he felt, loved the masculinity of ridged muscles covered by hair, loved the very scent of him. It was all she could do not to bury her nose in his chest and just breathe.
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"See? Nothing to be afraid of at all," Stuart murmured as her hands moved over him. His eyes were slightly narrowed, their opalescent blue opaque. His expression was again impossible to read, but his heart—Jessie could feel its hurried beat beneath her hand. Ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum, with a strong, fast rhythm, as if he were involved in some taxing physical contest. A tiny smile curved Jessie's mouth. Finally she had found a way to gauge what he was feeling.
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