Silk and Shadows

by Mary Jo Putney

  She raised her head to look at him, struggling for a measure of composure. "That is what you wanted to teach me?"

  "That was only the beginning, silken Sara, the first step on a road with no end." He smiled, unsteady brilliance in his eyes, and began caressing her again.

  She had thought her body was sated, but he knew better. Under his expert touch, tendrils of pleasure began to coil deep inside her, first slowly, then with growing intensity. Her eyes drifted shut in blissful, wondering appreciation.

  As he lowered her to the yielding turf, she heard the brushing sound of fingers manipulating fabric and buttons. Then he touched her again, his fingers sliding inside her, then spreading the delicate folds of flesh. She should have known what was happening, but she was too dazed, too disoriented by the newness and the pleasure to really understand.

  Sara's discovery of her capacity for rapture resonated within Peregrine, touching chords of wonder he had long forgotten or had never truly known. When she gazed at him, warm with wanting, delicious in her openness and vulnerability, she touched his spirit as deeply as she kindled his body.

  He reacted with primitive male possessiveness, overwhelmed by the irresistible need to make her his own. Intimacy was not something Sara would give or accept lightly. If she would be his lover, she would also be his wife. He wanted her, by all the gods that men worshiped, he wanted her, and her response was irrefutable proof that she also wanted him.

  He separated her legs and positioned himself between them. Though he yearned to plunge heedlessly into her sweet body, he restrained himself. His eyes closed as all his iron discipline focused on curbing unruly desire. While it was impossible to eliminate pain entirely, he pressed against her with slow care to minimize her discomfort.

  The implacable pressure shattered Sara's desire, and she cried out, as much in shock as discomfort. Her eyes flew open.

  Above her, his dark face was sweat-sheened, and his breath came in rasping gulps. She shook her head, wanting to say no, not now, not yet, but her voice had vanished in her confusion. She caught at the hard arms braced around her, but she had no strength, and he was too deep in his own needs to notice her feeble resistance.

  Abruptly the frail membrane sundered, and he slid into her moist, welcoming depths. For him, the sensation would have been paradise if he had not felt the spasm of pain that moved through Sara. "I'm sorry," he said raggedly, his lips near her ear. "There was no way that could be avoided."

  His supporting arms shaking with strain, he ordered himself to be still until she adjusted to the feel of having him inside her. Though he had never done it before, he knew the technique for initiating an innocent; when she was more relaxed, he would begin to move, first slight, almost indiscernible strokes, then deeper and deeper as he led her into the dance of intimacy.

  But restraint proved impossible. He trembled with need, his control disintegrating until with a groan he involuntarily thrust deeper.

  She made a raw, choking sound, her whole body going rigid as she whispered a tormented, "No!"

  In a distant part of his mind, he heard and understood her protest, and knew that he should stop. But he could not, for passion had splintered his prized discipline, and his need was far greater than his ability to control it.

  Ironically, when she twisted away in a futile gesture of rejection, her movement was the stimulus that sent him over the edge into pounding, shuddering oblivion. But even the chaotic pleasure was not strong enough to eradicate his sudden anguished knowledge that this was disaster for both of them.

  As reason returned in erratic patches, he rolled to his side and laid his face against Sara's, feeling her silken cheek against his. She was shaking in his arms, and he guessed that she was crying.

  "Damnation," he swore, as he gathered her closer and began stroking her back and neck. "I'm sorry, Sara. So sorry. That was badly done."

  Grimly he realized that it was an open question which of them was more upset. Because he had been drugged with desire, he had made an appallingly wrong assumption about her willingness. He did not think the result was quite rape, but there had been much less than full consent on Sara's part.

  He had wanted to please her. Instead he had given her an unpardonably clumsy introduction to the delights of the flesh. Even as an inexperienced youth, he had never performed so badly.

  He was furious with himself for what he had done to Sara, but even more furious over his ruinous loss of control. Though he had not had a woman for months, his roving life had often required lengthy periods of celibacy, so there was no excuse for the heedless, selfish passion he had just exhibited. Passion should be a man's servant, not his master, and being overwhelmed by it was profoundly disturbing.

  His whole life had been built on discipline, on absolute focus. That was what had brought him so far; without it, he would be nothing. Literally nothing, for he would have died a hundred times over if it had not been for his finely honed, invincible will.

  Sara stirred, and he clamped down on his bitter self-reproach. There would be time enough for analysis later. Now he must try to make amends for his disastrous weakness. He lifted his head, wanting to see her face. "Sara?"

  He thought she would be upset, perhaps distraught, and was prepared to comfort her, to apologize, to soothe her distress.

  But her dark eyes were dry, and when he saw her diamond-cold sibyl's gaze, he knew that the situation was far worse than he had thought. The slim woman in his arms, who had at first yielded with such sweetness, had been transformed into one of the greatest challenges of his life.

  Chapter 13

  Sara should have looked fragile and helpless lying on her back within the circle of Peregrine's arm, but she did not. Her quiet voice cutting with the force of a whiplash, she said, "Having compromised me, did you decide to finish the job of ruination so I would have no choice but to marry you?"

  "Nothing so definite as a decision was involved." He sat up, thinking wryly that Sara might be innocent, but she was nobody's fool or victim. A lesser woman would have been weeping, ripe for soft words and reassurance, but Sara was ready to take his unworthy head off. "You might find this useful," he said, offering her his handkerchief. Then he turned away while she blotted the small amount of blood and put her drawers on again.

  After Sara had adjusted her clothing, she said in a clipped voice, "Are you saying that what happened was an accident? I thought that you are not a man who permits accidents."

  He knew beyond doubt that if he said one wrong word, she would refuse to marry him, and be damned to the consequences. And while it was true that he didn't need a wife—in fact, acquiring one would surely be disruptive—the idea of losing her was quite intolerable.

  Uneasily he realized that she was far too intelligent and perceptive to let her judgment be blurred by easy apologies, so he would have to undertake the far more difficult task of honesty. He reached over and took Sara's hand. "What happened was not an accident, but a mistake. Because your body was ready for love, I thought, wrongly, that your emotions were, too."

  Her fingers tensed under his. Part of her wanted to snatch her hand away while the rest of her wanted to slide into his arms, to beg for reassurance that everything would be all right.

  It was not physical pain that had pushed her almost to the breaking point, for there had been little of that. But she had experienced a rapid and upsetting transition from wondrous joy to being overpowered by his fierce male strength. She hated that feeling of helplessness. Yet here she was, seeking comfort from the man responsible for her distress.

  Quietly he continued, "I wanted to believe you were willing. But I was wrong, damnably wrong. For that I am profoundly sorry."

  Reluctantly she met his gaze, fearing that she would find veiled triumph. Instead she saw remorse and self-recrimination, and the sight disarmed much of her anger.

  Considering how wantonly Sara had behaved, she could not blame Mikahl for believing that she would withhold nothing, but she was furious with herself
for allowing desire to destroy her will and sense. Even more infuriating was her suspicion that he had deliberately taken advantage of her confusion to seduce her so that she would have to marry him. It was one thing to be wooed, quite another to be coerced.

  But perhaps her worst fears were wrong. If she was reading him correctly, he was offering her the fragile, painful gift of vulnerability, for he was not a man who would easily admit or accept error in himself. Wanting to meet him halfway, she said hesitantly, "I did not really know what I wanted, so it is not surprising if you did not know what I wanted either."

  "But it was my responsibility to know. I wanted it to be right for you, and I failed." He sighed and turned his head so that she saw only his taut profile. "Passion makes fools of men, though it has never happened to me before. Quite simply, I lost control because I desired you too much."

  A muscle jerked in his cheek. "I think I hurt your spirit more than your body, and that kind of injury is the hardest to heal. I wish that my error could be undone, but it cannot. Have I alienated you beyond forgiveness, Sara?"

  She sensed that he would have sooner confessed to murder than loss of control. From her own experience, she knew that people were often most inept where they cared the most. Perhaps, God willing, that was the case here. Her fingers tightened on his. "Not quite, though it was a near thing." She smiled faintly. "You didn't fail entirely. Up to a point, it was... very right."

  "You have a generous nature." He faced her again, his thumb restlessly stroking her palm. "Will you marry me, Sara? In spite of my mistakes?"

  Quite coolly, almost as if she were outside her body, Sara considered the situation. In his way, she believed he was sincere, but she also believed that whatever impulse was driving him to offer marriage was a fleeting one. If she accepted him, she would pay a high price for whatever joy she found, for the odds were overwhelming that someday he would tire of England and Sara and leave them both.

  Yet because he desired her enough to lose some of his cherished control, and because she hoped that that loss meant that somewhere in his heart was a frail spark of caring that could be nourished into a flame, she took a deep breath and said, "Yes, I will marry you."

  In the silence that followed, she heard a thrush throwing its heart to the heavens in song. Then Mikahl gave her a smile that took her breath away.

  "I am so very glad." He did not kiss her, but reached out with his free hand to brush back a strand of fallen hair, the back of his hand caressing her cheek.

  "I cannot promise that I will make you happy, but I swear that I will try."

  "Trying is the most one can ever do." That was not a very romantic thought, Sara ruefully acknowledged to herself, but romance was singularly lacking in this odd courtship.

  "How soon can we be married?" After a moment's hesitation, he added, "For practical reasons, the sooner the better."

  Sara supposed that the chance that she had conceived today was slight, but given nature's perversity, it was not a gamble she wanted to take. "It is possible to marry immediately with a special license, but that would seem scandalous," she said, thinking aloud. "Three weeks would be best—that is the length of time it takes to read the banns."

  "Excellent." Lithely he got to his feet, then took her hands and lifted her easily to hers. "Shall we go to the house and break the news to your relatives? I realize that it is a little late to do the proper thing and ask your father's permission, but I'm willing to go through the motions if you think that would help appease him."

  Sara bit her lip, considering. "I think it will be better if I speak to him alone."

  His dark brows arched. "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure," she replied. "I don't know what mood my father will be in today." Having Mikahl at her side was a tempting thought, but if the duke was still angry, there might be an unpleasant scene. And Sara did not want to enter marriage with her husband and her father at daggers drawn.

  From his expression, she suspected that her new betrothed had guessed her motives, but he said only, "As you wish."

  "Come for dinner tonight," she suggested. "By then, all the guests will have left, and there will be just family here."

  "In other words, all the fur will have flown and the feathers settled?" He gave her a teasing smile. "I promise that I will be on my very best behavior."

  "Don't overdo it," she said, an answering smile tugging at her lips. "Otherwise no one will recognize you."

  He pulled on her hands, bringing her close to his chest. "As long as you recognize who I am, sweet Sara."

  Mikahl bent for a kiss, his green eyes laughing. As she lifted her face, Sara knew she could never forget him. Even if he vanished in a puff of smoke at this very instant, he was already etched on her heart and soul for all time.

  * * *

  Since anyone seeing her rumpled and grass-stained self would have no doubts about what she had been doing, Sara took care to slip into her room unobserved. She seemed to have spent quite a lot of time sneaking around lately. And to think that she had always led such a blameless life.

  Without ringing for her maid, she changed to a more presentable gown and repaired the damage to her coiffure, then went off to break the news to her family. She was relieved to find that the other houseguests had left. It was quite enough to be facing her relatives without also facing the world.

  Characteristically she decided to start with her father, since that would be the most difficult interview. The Duke of Haddonfield was in the library writing a letter, and he greeted his daughter with the same remote civility he would have given a stranger.

  Uneasy at his expression, Sara halted just inside the door. "Father, I've decided to accept Prince Peregrine's proposal."

  "I should hope so," he said brusquely. "Marrying him is the only way to repair the damage you've done to your reputation."

  His gaze strayed to the sofa, where he had seen her writhing shamelessly the night before. Sara flushed as she guessed his thoughts. Evenly she said, "I'm not marrying him to save my reputation, but because I want to."

  Her father shrugged. He seemed to have aged twenty years since the night before. "Why are you bothering to tell me? You are of age and don't need my permission, and you've shown precious little respect for my wishes."

  Sara's hands clenched, the nails digging into her palms. She should have accepted Mikahl's offer to come with her, for this was worse, much worse, than she had expected. "I was hoping for your blessing."

  "It was your marriage to Charles Weldon that had my blessing." His mouth twisted bitterly. "But I will give you away at the wedding. Not to do so would cause talk."

  For a hurt, angry moment, she considered rejecting his grudging offer, but the scandal would be much greater if he didn't attend her wedding. "We are going to marry in three weeks, as soon as the banns are posted."

  Her father made a vague motion with his hand. "Let my secretary know the details of place and time, and I'll be there."

  For a moment Sara teetered on the brink of tears or flight. Instead she crossed the room and knelt beside him. "I have not lived up to the standards you taught me," she said softly. "But you are my only father as I am your only child. You are angry, and you have the right to be, but please don't let us be estranged over this. I need you too much."

  For the first time, his bleak gaze met hers. "You don't need me, for you have your mother's strength. When she died..." He sighed and glanced away. "I am not so much angry at you as at the repercussions. Perhaps this will turn out for the best, at least for you. I just don't know."

  Puzzled, she sat back on her heels. "What do you mean?"

  "Pray God you'll never find out." After the cryptic comment, he touched her hair for a moment. "Be off now. I will draft a new betrothal notice for the newspapers."

  Sara left the library, troubled. She had expected anger, and instead found a desolation that seemed inappropriate to what had happened. Perhaps her father was regretting the loss of Weldon's friendship, for after last night things
would never again be the same between the two men. Still, the way he had spoken at the end gave her hope that the duke would accept Mikahl in time.

  Next she went in search of Ross and Aunt Marguerite. As she expected, her cousin was in his office, which had originally been a sitting room attached to his bedroom. Now Ross used it for his writing, so books, papers, and souvenirs of his travels lined the bookshelves and occasionally spilled to the Persian carpet.

  Ross pushed his chair back from the desk when Sara entered, his brown eyes, so much like hers, scanning her shrewdly. He knew her better than anyone, but if he guessed what mischief she had got into in his garden, he didn't comment. Instead he stood and crossed the room to give her a much-needed hug. "Been a difficult day, little cousin?"

  Her head against his shoulder, she nodded wordlessly, almost trembling with relief now that she could let her guard down. Strange that she was always uneasily aware of Mikahl's strength, while with Ross, who was equally tall and strong, she felt only comfort and protection.

  He ruffled her hair, then released her. "Have you decided what you are going to do?"

  "I'm going to marry him."

  He regarded her gravely. "Are you sure that is what you want to do? Scandals can be ridden out. Don't do something you'll regret just because a few people will talk."

  Sara began to drift around the room. "Perhaps it is a mistake to marry him." She picked up a small brass figurine of an Indian goddess, a miniature study in sensuality, then set it down after a brief study. "But—I'm sure it would also be a mistake not to marry him."

  "I see." Ross perched on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed on his chest. "Are you in love with him?"

  "I don't know." An antique Venetian mirror hung on the wall, and she gazed into it, thinking that the words "fallen woman" ought to be written in scarlet across her forehead. But she appeared much as she usually did.

  She shifted her gaze to Ross's reflection, which was easier to address than his actual face. She wanted him to understand, and after a moment she thought of the one example that would explain everything. Haltingly she said, "I think that now I understand about you and Juliet."