Agnes turned to the table, tears in her eyes. “God help him. How?”
Kirsten realized her mistake. Could her mother take much more pain? How would she react upon learning that her nephew’s death was by her brother’s hand? She didn’t answer her mother’s question.
When Agnes set the plate of cakes down on the table, the atmosphere in the room was so tense, so thick, that Kirsten felt strangled by it.
“Kirsten, how?” her mother asked again.
“He was shot.” She pretended an indifference that wasn’t there.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Kirsten refused to meet her parent’s gaze. “It was an accident. The gun went off by mistake.”
“Who?” Agnes gasped, her face paling. It was as if she’d already guessed. “William?”
Her daughter nodded, her blue eyes full of compassion as she finally faced her mother.
“Oh, my God!” Agnes swayed as if she were going to faint, and Richard sprang from his chair to support her and help her sit down.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Agnes nodded. “I knew it would come to this, only I thought it would be James and not the boy.” She held her hands over her eyes and cried. “Poor Miles . . . poor, poor dear boy!”
Richard looked at Kirsten, and she glanced away guiltily.
“Catherine,” Agnes sobbed. “Oh, God help her. Catherine—does she know?” She eyed her daughter for an answer.
Kirsten shook her head. “Father went to get her. He’s bringing her here. Uncle William is gone, escaped from the fight unharmed.”
Agnes’ mouth became a straight line. “We will not mention his name in this household again!”
“But, Moeder, Aunt Cather—”
“I’ll deal with Catherine,” Kirsten’s mother interrupted. “But as of this day, I have no brother. The man I once loved as kin is dead!”
James Van Atta came home shortly, alone. “She was gone,” he said. “William must have taken her. I’m sure she went willingly, for she knows nothing of what he did.”
His wife stared straight ahead, her lips firmed. At her father’s questioning look, Kirsten quickly explained her mother’s decision.
Nodding, James slumped into a chair, suddenly tired. “Damn,” he muttered. “When will it all end, the murder and bloodshed?”
Chapter Twenty-four
The house was quiet. Grateful for his part in the rescue, the Van Attas had invited Richard to stay the night. They had a spare bedchamber and plenty of food, Agnes had assured him. It would certainly be no trouble.
And Richard had accepted quickly, without thought.
Lying in bed, studying the ceiling, he realized his mistake in staying in the Van Atta home. It was torture knowing that Kirsten was in her bedchamber across the hall, only a few feet away, while he was in the spare room, alone, in the dark . . . aching for her. He should have stayed at the inn. Martin Hoppe would have gladly given him a room.
Exhausted from their ordeal, the Van Atta family members were asleep. It didn’t help to imagine Kirsten lying on her feather tick, her glorious silver tresses spread across her pillow, her lush lovely curves beneath a thin linen night rail.
Forcing desire and thoughts of her away, Richard recalled the youth Miles, and his relationship to the Van Atta family. A pain like a knife thrust pierced his breast. Poor Kirsten. She’s hurting so badly. He would have given anything in the world to spare her grief. He sat up, fighting the strongest urge to go to her across the hall. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away her tears. By loving her, he would attempt to force away her torment, her bad memories.
But he knew that in fact there was nothing he could do to take her pain away. Only time would dull the hurt. Only with its passing, would her wounds heal.
Or would they? Richard grimaced in the dark, recalling how even now, after several years, the hurt of having lost his own loved ones lingered, touched him at odd moments.
He heard her crying then, soft sobbing sounds that came from the soul, and he knew he’d been mistaken to believe that everyone in the household was asleep and at peace.
Kirsten, if I come to you now, will you turn me away? Will you let me hold you, comfort you? He should have known that Kirsten’s grief would overcome her body’s need for sleep. The physical, he supposed, rarely triumphed over the mind. The mind was the spirit and soul of a person, the basic core of what we are. How could a body wrestle with such a powerful force and win?
Unable to bear hearing Kirsten’s suffering, Richard rose from the bed and padded barefoot across the cold floor. He was naked but thought little of it. His only thought, his only goal, was to cross a hallway several feet wide and enter Kirsten’s bedchamber.
He cared not if he’d be welcomed, nor did it occur to him that it would appear most improper should he be discovered in the middle of the night in Kirsten’s bedchamber, undressed.
He opened his door silently. After crossing the hall, he gently turned the door knob to Kirsten’s bedchamber, and with a slight push forward, the door swung without a sound.
The night sky was as clear as the day’s had been. Moonlight filtered in through the window’s glass panes, bathing the alcove bed directly across the room. He stopped and studied the bed. He’d never seen one like it. Built into the wall, it had a ceiling, three walls, and double doors closing it in. This night Kirsten had left the doors to the alcove open. Moonglow bathed the young woman as she lay, sobbing her heart out, upon the giant bed. Grief-stricken and beyond awareness of her surroundings, she remained oblivious to Richard’s presence.
He hesitated, before fully entering the chamber. Suddenly, he felt as if he shouldn’t have come. He was an intruder on a private moment. Everyone was entitled to a moment of privacy, and for Kirsten this time was in a sense sacred.
But he found that he couldn’t make himself turn back. He couldn’t leave her in such a terrible state, not without comfort, because, by God, he loved the woman.
Emotion swelled within his breast. Tenderness. Affection and desire. The urge to comfort and protect her.
Richard moved toward the bed.
“No! No!” She still couldn’t believe that it had happened. Miles dead? Kirsten recalled her cousin’s laughter, his smile . . . the twinkle in his brown eyes when he’d teased her . . . his being mischievous. Nothing had altered the deep caring they’d shown one another. Even war had not kept them apart. They’d taken chances, defied family to be together secretly. The clearing in the woods would always be their own special meeting place. Perhaps she’d go there in the morning and feel his presence . . .
The war had gone on forever, it seemed. Families destroyed. Men murdered. Innocent women molested—even raped, according to some people who had recently traveled through Hoppertown.
Why won’t George’s men leave us alone? The King had his people in England to contend with, why concern himself with a country that was a world away, across an ocean?
Because of greed, she thought. Wasn’t that what it all came down to? Money? Coin?
Kirsten lay with her eyes closed and in her mind again saw Miles die. The blood! So much blood! She could smell it. Would she never be free of that scent?
Her hands had been red with Miles’s blood. Would they ever feel the same again? Would she ever be the same?
Miles’s face had been pale . . . lifeless. Oh, dear God in heaven, he’s dead!
Grief overwhelmed her, and great sobs rattled her chest and made her gasp for air. She buried her face in her pillow, but the tears refused to stop.
The feather tick moved as a weight settled on it. The next thing Kirsten knew was that someone was lifting her, drawing her against a hard masculine chest. Words of comfort flowed over her, fingers stroked the wisps of silver blond hair at her temples. She felt the sure heat of a strong touch at her neck, down her back.
Richard, she thought, and cried even harder as she turned against him fully. Her tears continued, soaki
ng his warm skin.
“Oh, Richard,” she wailed softly.
“I know, love. I know. Let it out. It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll hold you.”
“Why, Richard? Why did it happen?”
He was silent a moment, and when he finally did speak, his voice was deep and rasping. “I don’t know, Kirsten. There’s no sense in any of this anymore. I’d thought once that there was, but now . . .” His tone was laced with regret.
She lifted her cheek from his breast. Looking into his russet eyes, she saw the pain in them, the shared frustration and grief. He is a beautiful human being, she thought, her gaze caressing his male features. His sensual mouth was now tightened with concern, and his brow was creased ever so slightly, drawing her attention to his scar.
“You didn’t go,” she said.
He shook his head. “I was with Martin when the news came.” He cupped her cheek, allowing his fingers to fondle her smooth skin tenderly. “At your request.”
She had closed her eyes in pleasure at his touch, and now she opened them again. “You told him everything, and he believed you?” She had told him Martin would, yet she seemed awed that she’d been right.
Richard nodded. “Did you doubt Martin’s faith?”
Affronted by the question, she said, “Not really, mynheer.”
He raised his eyebrows as he rubbed her earlobe. “Mynheer?” There was a glimmer of amusement in his warm, russet gaze.
“Richard.”
“Say it again.”
She shook her head.
“Why not?” he asked.
Kirsten frowned, the corners of her pink lips turning down into a pout, and she shifted away from his touch. “Because you make fun of my speech.”
He groaned. “Good God, no, love. I wish to hear you say it, because I love the way you do so. You thrill me with the sound of it.”
She blinked, startled by the admission.
“Shocked?” He smiled at her tenderly and reached out to caress her again, stroking her chin.
Kirsten shook her head no, and Richard’s gaze was drawn to her lips . . . so sweet . . . pink . . . tempting. His fingers moved to trace them, enjoying their shape and texture, the way they trembled beneath his hand.
He felt a twinge of guilt for wanting her so badly, for letting physical desire blind him to her pain. “Damn!” he cursed.
“What’s wrong?” She seemed alarmed by his outburst.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, but he gave himself away. With a rueful smile, he looked down at himself.
Kirsten followed his gaze and her eyes grew round as she saw his manhood, thick and rising between his thighs. Within her she felt a tingle in response.
Richard set her away from him. “You’re tired. You must rest.” He started to rise, and she stared at him, feeling hurt. He’d been so warm and comforting, but now he was leaving her.
“Don’t go!” She reached for his arm. She didn’t want to be alone this night.
Richard stared at her hand before he raised russet eyes to meet her glistening blue gaze. “Love . . . have pity on me. I’m only human. I can take only so much.”
“Then go ahead and take it,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Please . . . take me. Love me—make me forget.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” His voice sounded strangled. “In the morning, you’ll wake up and I’ll have to leave, and you’ll be angry.” He drew a hand raggedly through his hair, tousling the tawny-colored strands. He looked harassed, like a cat who’s had its fur ruffled.
“Richard.”
“Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“Richard . . .” Her voice was an invitation, purposely enticing, seductively soft.
Richard swallowed. He’d been a fool to come into her bedchamber. If he were discovered there by her parents . . .
“They sleep like the dead,” she said, as if reading his mind. “They’ll never know. How do you think I came to see you at the ruin?”
He felt a stirring of hope and renewed desire. His muscles tensed with the feeling; his shaft throbbed with it. His breath quickened as he sat down.
“I love you, Richard.” Kirsten fell against him and wrapped her arms about his waist.
“Don’t!” he said, his tone strained. “Don’t say it. It’ll only hurt more later.”
“Say it, Richard,” she prompted. “Say you love me.”
The moment grew charged as she waited for the admission. With Miles gone, she felt so alone. More than ever she needed Richard’s love, needed to hear him say the words.
“I do care for you, Kirsten.”
“Say it, Richard.” She drew back, her blue eyes glittering, her lips firm.
“Kirsten—”
“Oh, don’t!” she cried all of a sudden. She threw herself back into his embrace. “It doesn’t matter—don’t you see? I love you so much that it doesn’t matter!”
He groaned and held her tight. “Oh, Kirsten . . .”
They kissed, a fierce meeting of mouths that spoke of suppressed passions and emotions that were buried deep.
Richard leaned back then to study her. Everything about her fascinated him. That shining cascade of long, platinum blond hair . . . those sparkling blue eyes. Her face bore the ravages of her earlier tears, but that only heightened her beauty rather than detracting from it.
This woman cared . . . and loved deeply. She claimed she loved him. Richard felt a bit jealous of the place Miles had held in her tender heart.
Kirsten was clad in a linen night rail. The top feather tick had been shoved away during her crying episode, so his gaze swept from her lovely blue eyes to her throat, then to supple breasts that swelled and strained against white fabric. A tiny blue bow adorned the neck of her rail, it probably kept the gown closed, he supposed.
Richard’s fingers went to the ribbon bow, pulled gently; and as he’d expected, the night rail parted at the collar.
She didn’t say a word, hadn’t moved a muscle to stop him. She neither smiled nor frowned, but just looked at him with glistening aquamarine eyes. His heart slammed against his chest muscles, and he shivered as he peeled back fabric and beheld the white, silken flesh inside.
“Are you cold?” she asked. Her face displayed concern.
He shook his head. “No. Are you?”
Kirsten sighed and closed her eyes as Richard dipped his hand inside her night rail, found and lifted her left breast. Cold? she thought. With Richard touching her, how could she be cold? She felt hot; her skin was tingling.
He removed his hand, and she murmured a faint protest, until she realized that he had better plans for her . . . for them. He worked to release each of the tiny buttons along the front of her night rail.
Kirsten gasped as he opened the garment, exposing her breasts to the cool, night air.
“Lovely,” he said in a husky voice. “So lovely.”
She smiled, glad that he found her so. Richard eased her back against the bed, following her down, warming her with his length.
She moaned. He was kissing her throat. . . her shoulders . . . the slope of her breast. He caught a nipple between his lips and nipped it lightly before laving it with his tongue. She felt the tip tingle as it hardened into a little nub.
Kirsten shifted beneath him, opening her legs until his muscular thighs were cradled in the hollow she’d created. He rose up to study her moon-lit face. His look was purely male, sensual, and the sight of his passion heightened her own.
Richard smiled, apparently satisfied by her expression, and then the smile was wiped from his face and he threw back his head, groaning. Kirsten had grabbed hold of his buttocks, had arched up against him, rotating her hips. His closed lashes hid the glaze of passion in his russet gaze, but she could hear his breathing. It came in pants—harsh, masculine inhalations and exhalations of air. Kirsten felt the growing tension in the muscles beneath her hands. She kissed his neck and closed her eyes, enjoying the scent and feel of him.
Richard rejoiced in the soft, warm hands on his back and buttocks. He groaned in ecstasy when she pushed him up so that she could tenderly handle his shaft.
“No, love,” he gasped.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, let me.”
He rolled over onto his back and pulled her up above him, setting her astraddle of his thighs. With loving hands, she touched him, for she had easy access to his points of pleasure. She fondled and touched and manipulated him until he shuddered, near the edge. He stopped her then; he wasn’t about to journey alone. He wanted her with him.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said, his voice hoarse. And he caught the warm, fleshy globes that hung like ripe apples as she bent. Cupping a white mound, he watched with fascination as her breast responded to his fingertips. Then, with a hand at her back, he propelled her forward until her breast was a ripe fruit offering for his lips.
She shivered as he suckled her. She moaned and whimpered and made those little cat sounds that he so enjoyed hearing. Richard gave the same attention to her other breast and felt himself near to bursting as he did so. Finally, unable to bear the wait any longer, he reversed their positions and entered her.
She was ready for him, as he was for her; and as he thrust inside her, she sighed before she began to buck against him in a set rhythm.
“That’s it, love,” he crooned. “Reach for the stars.”
He strained against her as he buried himself within her, feeling himself throb and quicken as he slid in and out of her moist sheath.
“Richard!”
“Yes, love!”
“Please!”
He pressed faster . . . harder. “Oh, yes,” he grated between clenched teeth.
Suddenly, the sky opened up and the moon and sun shattered, filling the dark with many, brilliant points of light. Richard exploded with sensation, with color, and a wealth of feeling he’d never before experienced.
Kirsten sobbed his name as he pushed against her one hard, last time. She gasped, shuddered, and lay still. And Richard was satisfied, for she, too, had found pleasure beyond description in their coupling.
He lay on top of her, his weight pressing her into the feather tick. He was heavy, but Kirsten didn’t mind, for he was warm, wonderful, and very much alive.
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