But the way Richard gave her pleasure made denying him impossible. She wanted him. She loved him! And if loving him meant only one night in his arms, then so be it! She’d take her night and fight like hell to spend another with him.
“Will it be so very bad being trapped here with me?” he asked, his voice like silk. “I’m sure we’ll keep busy. You seemed to enjoy my touch earlier.”
“You don’t want me,” she murmured, trembling. “You—”
“Oh, Kirsten love, I do want you. Too much . . . too damn much! And if it weren’t for this war—” He stopped, and then spoke again with more feeling. “I’ve tried fighting it. God, how I’ve tried! And I almost lost the battle two nights ago when you cuddled against me so sweetly.”
He encircled her form with both arms, pulling her above him as he lay back. Her hair fell like a silver mantle, brushing his face with wisps of silk. He couldn’t see her as he wished; it was too dark in the night-enshrouded shelter. But he could picture her as if it were daybreak. Her blue eyes would be bright with the light of love, her lips dewy and slightly open, and her platinum tresses would catch the dawn’s light, brightening to white as the sun rose.
She inhaled sharply. She could feel the tautness of his muscles, could imagine the heat of desire straining against his linen breeches. His hands ran the length of her arms, lovingly squeezing her through her sleeves, until they reached her wrists. His fingers played over her pulse points. And then his palms cupped her breasts.
“Oh, Richard.” She was in danger of succumbing to desire. As his fingers fondled her breasts through fabric, they swelled to fill his hands. She reached out for his chest with her hands, exploring.
He stopped her. “No, love—not yet. I want you to feel . . . feel and enjoy.” He undid each of her buttons until her breasts were bared for his loving hands.
“So soft . . .” she heard him murmur. “So sweet.” He shifted beneath her so he could suckle her nipple. When one breast was wet with his kiss, his lips moved to sip deeply from its mate.
She moaned and arched to ease his position. His mouth was doing things to her she’d never thought possible. He moved again, sliding her a bit backward until his tumescence was cradled in the cleft between her thighs. As the tip of his staff pressed through his breeches, Kirsten gasped. Liquid warmth bathed her womanhood, and she experienced again a pleasurable ache that begged for Richard’s touch.
“Kirsten . . .” His husky voice came from deep in his throat as he rolled them until they’d exchanged positions. “I can’t wait much longer. Ah, woman . . . you feel like silk!”
His hands guided her breeches from her limbs, pausing now and then to fondle her legs. Instinctively, her legs opened, and she gasped and closed her thighs as cool air brushed against the warm wetness of her desire. She heard a rustling of clothing in the darkness as Richard shucked his breeches. Then she knew his hard, sinewy length as he stretched out above her.
“Kirsten, this may hurt,” he gasped as his leg insinuated itself between her thighs. “But only the first . . . time.” His words sounded as if they came from between tightly clenched teeth. “Open up, sweetheart. That’s it!”
His hard tip touched and teased her feminine petals. And then he was probing deeper and deeper, until she thrust upward, searching for . . . what?
He feels so huge! she thought, and knew a moment of fear. “No, we shouldn’t!” She moved her head back and forth against the blanket, pushing against him, afraid.
“It’s all right, love,” Richard crooned. Taut with desire, he knew he couldn’t stop; she felt so wonderful. “Easy now,” he groaned, and drove into her deeply.
His kiss stifled her cry of pain. He forced himself to remain still, allowing her body time to adjust for him. “It won’t hurt anymore, love. From here on in, it’s sweet sailing.”
Kirsten’s eyes widened in wonder as, slowly, he began to move within her. The ache, the joy of having him touch her, intensified with each thrust of his male hips. Oh, something was building, growing inside of her!
She gasped and cried out as she climaxed. Her body went taut and then shivered deliciously. At that same moment, Richard groaned and spilled his seed into her.
Chapter Eight
“Are you all right?” Richard eased himself from the woman beneath him and drew her against his side. He cradled her head on his chest and allowed his fingers to play with her hair, enjoying the silken texture.
Kirsten nodded and nuzzled against him. “I am fine, mynheer.” She stretched upward to place a kiss on his cheek.
Richard was only slightly relieved. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. He frowned. She’d been a virgin. It was too late; he had already caused her pain. He shouldn’t have touched her! He had to leave on the morrow, perhaps never to return. He could never be the man Kirsten needed.
“Even if you hurt me—just a little,” Kirsten murmured after a long moment of silence, “it was worth it. I have never before felt so . . . so . . .”
Richard couldn’t help but smiling. “I know. It’s never been this way for me before either.”
“This is true?”
He could sense her surprise. “Yes,” he admitted softly.
The two lay basking in the sweet aftermath of their lovemaking. Trapped within the ruins, they shared their own private world. The soldiers might never have come there. The threat of the war seemed far away.
But soon reality crept in to haunt Richard, reminding him of the job he had to finish. While Kirsten slept, her naked form cuddled against him, he remembered the Briton’s words. Biv, fool that he is, thinks he’s a Loyalist . . . I’d get rid of him, but we may have need of him again.
Biv! Just as he’d thought! Biv was at the bottom of the treachery! Soon, Richard vowed, the bastard would meet his fate.
He must get to Washington’s camp. This information was vital. Biv had had a hand in the attempt on his life. Was the man a direct link with the traitor who’d killed Alex?
Richard shuddered. For all he knew the traitor might now be laying a trap for Washington’s army. He wondered if he could live with himself if this time with Kirsten meant the deaths of innocent young men.
Kirsten stirred in her sleep, and he tightened his embrace. Crooning softly, he rubbed her back until she settled back into a peaceful slumber.
Oh, woman, he thought. What have you done to me that I’d neglect my duty for a night in your arms? He ran a finger down her cheek, across her lips, knowing the exact moment when her mouth curved in joy at his touch.
She moaned and then opened her lips to draw his finger into her mouth. Richard drew a harsh breath when she tasted the digit, her tongue swirling about it with slow flicks.
He withdrew his hand to cup and caress her throat, before he captured her breast. Kirsten snuggled against him, her fingers splaying against his chest, discovering a male nipple, pinching it gently.
“Oh, girl!”
“What’s fair is fair,” she murmured groggily. When he retaliated by pressing a hand to the moist triangle of curls between her legs, Kirsten whimpered.
“Richard,” she cried.
He laughed, the deep mellow sound becoming raspy when her fingers enclosed his rising manhood.
“We shouldn’t, Kirsten, you—”
“It doesn’t hurt much.”
“Still, you’re sore . . .” Richard hesitated, but the flowing tide of ecstasy was hardening his body, capturing his soul. He couldn’t take her! She must be raw, he wanted it to be good for her. “I know a way, but you must trust me.”
Trust him? Kirsten thought. She’d given herself to him. She trusted him with her heart. . . her life. “What shall I do?”
“Lie back.” He slid down to kneel between her open legs.
“Richard?” Kirsten blinked and tried to see him. His hands skimmed over her thighs to the gateway of her desire. She arched off the blanket, shocked, when his head bent and his hair brushed against her legs. His warm, wet mouth kissed her intimate
ly. She gasped. “Richard, what . . .”
He straightened. His eyes, glowing, held her gaze. “Trust me, Kirsten.”
She did . . . and captured a moment of heaven in the arms of her Continental.
“Major! Sir, there’s someone approaching!”
“Shadwell, get the men into position!” Major Richard Thatcher was instantly alert as he barked orders, insuring the safety of his men and supplies. He stood outside the ring of the firelight, his small troop of men lining up, prepared to fight.
There was the pounding of hoofbeats.
“Rea-dy . . .”
The soldiers hefted their guns into firing position.
“Aim . . .”
Just then a lone figure on horseback came galloping through a break in the trees.
“Hold up, Shadwell. I think it’s our man.”
“Hold up!” The order was repeated for the line. A second command was issued, to keep position.
Suddenly wary of the soldiers’ stance, William Randolph hesitated, his hands clutching the reins tightly as he pulled up his mount. But the horse, lathered by the gallop and the heat, reared, nearly unseating his master. Randolph skillfully brought the gelding under control and then his gaze fastened on the British commander.
“Major Thatcher?” he asked.
The man nodded, his expression stoic, and fingers of fear closed about Randolph’s throat. The officer was a stern-faced individual of high rank, clad familiarly in the red coat and uniform of the British Army.
Randolph took off his hat and with his sleeve wiped his sweat-beaded forehead. After replacing his headgear, he climbed from his horse, his movements cautious. He was shaken by the lack of welcome. He’d not expected to be treated as royalty, but he’d hoped to have been greeted as a friend.
No one moved. The soldiers’ muskets were trained on him as he approached.
“Major Thatcher.” Trembling, Randolph held out his hand. When the officer made no move to accept the handshake, he lowered his arm, paling. “The King waits for his Queen.” He saw that Thatcher recognized the passwords; and he smiled, no longer afraid. “I’m here to lend my services. I can be of tremendous help to you and your command.”
Randolph extended his hand a second time, and this time—as if some message had passed between the two men—the major’s hand lifted from his side.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Major,” Randolph said. “Please—call me Biv.”
A warm breeze wafted in through the cellar opening, playing gently over Kirsten’s bare back, lifting tendrils of her silver-blond hair. She stirred and then came awake in an instant at the feel of coarse wool beneath her, the absence of the alcove walls of her bed. A smile settled upon her lips, and she closed her eyes. Memories of the night infringed on her consciousness, making her body feel hot and tingly all over. She remembered Richard’s touch, his kisses . . . his hard manhood entering her.
Kirsten rolled onto her back, searching for the warmth of his flesh, his muscled hardness. When her hand hit the empty blanket beside her, she frowned, then opened her eyes to find him gone. Her gaze went to the opening in the opposite wall, and she experienced a sudden, squeezing, gut-wrenching fear. The British—had they gotten Richard?
She scrambled to the doorway. There was no sign of him anywhere.
Her heart lightened. There were no indications of a struggle either, so wherever he was, he must be all right. She recalled his fierce determination to be on his way, and felt a jolt of alarm. He’s left me! she thought. And after a glorious night of making love!
She fought back tears. Oh, Richard, how could you have gone? Kirsten sank to the ground, heedless of her naked bottom on the ragged boards of the makeshift door.
She sniffed. To catch a glimpse of heaven only to have it ripped away!
Curse you, Richard Maddox, you promised to say good-bye! She wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. Crying wouldn’t bring him back. She would survive this; she was, after all, a mature woman of eighteen, and Richard . . . was the man she’d loved. But she would miss him!
Kirsten’s lips firmed. She’d always known he’d have to leave. She’d surrendered herself to him anyway. Her pain now was her own fault.
Oh, Richard . . . why didn’t you say good-bye? I never asked for gratitude. But, she realized, she’d asked him for more, more than he could give her. She’d asked for his love.
She stood, wincing at the stiffness of her muscles. Her body tingled wherever he’d touched her—and he’d explored her everywhere.
She gathered her belongings from the cellar room, folding the coarse blankets which had been Richard’s bed . . . their bed of love. Next, Kirsten collected her basket. She began to cry when she spied the radishes, recalling his pleasure when she’d shown him what she’d brought.
But they’d never sampled the fresh vegetables or the cinnamon cakes. She caught back a sob. They’d become too involved in each other.
Without taking the time to dress, Kirsten moved about the cellar, wiping out all traces of Richard’s stay. Soon, she stood with all her belongings at her feet, eyeing the shelter which had been their night’s haven.
In a fit of anger, she picked up the iron kettle and hurled it against the wall. With a clank, the pot rolled into the corner of the room. Tears blinding her, Kirsten cursed, venting her fury.
And then she realized she was no longer alone.
Richard heard the commotion as he neared the mill. He became alarmed when he heard Kirsten’s raised voice, and he threw down the wild flowers he’d gathered for her and rushed inside to see what had happened.
She stood in the center of the room, naked, muttering harshly in Dutch. She bent and, in her anger, began throwing things. Whatever she could get her hands on. A pot. A basket. Her tinder box.
Richard was startled. But soon the sight of her naked and beautiful, spitting like an angry kitten, brought him to the point of merriment. Eyes twinkling with good humor, he entered the room. “Kirsten?”
Taken by surprise, she spun about, and he saw her eyes widen in astonishment.
“Richard!” Her face became radiant with joy. “Oh, Richard, you’re here!”
His chest was bare, and he was without boots. He wore the linen breeches that she’d “borrowed” from her father. The fawn-colored garment was loose in the seat, but fit him snugly in the legs where his thighs stretched the fine cloth taut.
Kirsten suddenly realized that she was naked. With a mild exclamation, she grabbed for her clothes and dressed. When she was done, she faced Richard and then flung herself into his arms. Her soft sobs filled the cellar room.
“Easy there. What’s all this?” He pulled back to study her. “Kirsten?”
“I . . . oh, Richard. I’m so glad to see you!”
“You act as if you thought I’d lef—” He felt a jolt. “You thought I’d left!”
She blushed. “When I woke up, I was alone. You were gone so long . . .” Her eyes flashed blue fire. “How could you scare me like that?”
Something squeezed his chest. He shouldn’t have touched her. “Kirsten, you knew before we—before last night—that I’d have to leave.” His voice was brusque.
She clutched his arm. “But not without saying good-bye! You promised you’d say good-bye first!”
He understood her pain. “So I did,” he said, his tone gentling. “And I will. As you can see, I haven’t broken my promise. I’m still here.”
She didn’t appear mollified by his reassurances. “You left and came back because you felt guilty.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Guilty? Why should I feel guilty? You knew there was no chance of a future for us.” He saw her flinch, and reminded himself that he’d only stated the truth.
“Curse you!” She came at him then in a whirl of fury. “Why did you have to come here, make me feel things I’ve never felt before! Yes, I knew!” Sobbing, she struck at his bare chest. “Why did I ever save you anyway?”
Crying, she hit him again and again. R
ichard stood, enduring the force of her blows, knowing that the pain of her fists was nothing compared to the anguish she was feeling.
Finally, he’d had enough. But apparently she thought otherwise. Despite his attempts to stop her, she continued battling him at arm’s length.
“Stop it.” Richard caught her wrists. “Kirsten, stop it!”
She sagged against him, and he thought if it were not for his hold she would have fallen.
“I’m sorry.” She seemed ashamed by her outburst as she attempted to pull free.
Richard, sensing her new calm, released her.
“I apologize,” she repeated. Her blue eyes pleaded for his forgiveness.
“You’re no sorrier than I am.” He muttered an oath when he saw how she whitened. “Not for making love, you fool woman.” His tone became tender. “For causing you pain.”
She cupped his face and caressed his smoothly shaven jaw. He was glad he’d used the razor she’d brought him.
“Kirsten . . .” He paused. “I have to leave. I can’t stay.”
Her hand on his face stilled. “I know.”
“Love, forgive me.”
She stiffened. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said without feeling. “As you carefully pointed out, I knew beforehand that you’d leave when you were well.”
He studied her tight expression, understanding the pain she was feeling, sharing the hurt because he himself didn’t want to go.
She looked lovely and irresistible. He wanted nothing more than to lie with her on a patch of thick grass, to love her until those soft whimpers rose from deep in her throat. He loved the sound of those little cries.
Groaning, Richard captured her mouth, his lips hot and fiercely demanding. He enjoyed the taste of her, the scent of her; his staff swelled and hardened with his desire.
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