Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  “You have a charming way with an insult.” He placed the bowl on the floor. “Although knave is a bit archaic, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps ‘savage’ suits you better.”

  If he craved something more in keeping with their surroundings, she would gladly provide it.

  He nodded, and his features softened in the flickering amber light. “Ah, yes, that, too.”

  Confusion and a new wariness guided Catherine’s next words. “Are you one of them?”

  “By birth, no, but in spirit, always. These people saved my life once and gave me a home and hospitality for two years. They are a proud people, and if that were the case, I would feel no shame in admitting a common ancestry with them.”

  She wished desperately for him to shed more light on his past, give her a reason for the blood feud between himself and Jeremy Flint.

  “Does your association with my husband stem back to the time you just mentioned?”

  “Let us not speak of the past tonight.” With the lightest touch of his fingers, he traced a path that started at her shoulders and ended in the palms of her hands.

  Heat suffused Catherine’s skin. The flickering light that enveloped them in dusky shadows did nothing to blunt her awareness of his near-nakedness. Nor did it still the pulse beating in a wild, steady rhythm in her throat. His lips mocked her with their closeness, and his warm breath fanned her face, waking her to the heated promise of his manhood.

  * * * *

  Through the opening in the lodge roof, the night sky shone with a million stars. All Rive’s life the constellations had intrigued him. Tonight he barely noticed them. Instead, he watched the play of light on her flesh. It caressed her cheeks, sun-darkened from a warm peach to a rich, glowing brown. Then his gaze slid over her slender arms and—as he had suspected—the pleasing curves of the shapely legs that unsteadily supported the whole fragile structure. Her eyes were large with fear, and her chin—jutting forward at a defiant angle—trembled with it. Yet she stood her ground. She had armed herself behind a brave front he guessed took every ounce of her will. She was truly beguiling.

  He drew her to him, and the contact of her breasts, hips and slender thighs against his flesh wreaked havoc on his heart. Her hair fell in thick, golden waves. He captured a handful and brought it to his lips. Then his mouth continued its exploration; first the pulse that beat in her throat like a fluttering leaf, then the indentation just visible above the doeskin draping her breasts. He felt no compulsion to hurry, not even when his tongue left a moist trail along the column of her neck, and the tiniest taste of salt clinging to the dewy moisture of her skin inflamed his senses.

  For a long moment, he held her against him. Then, slowly, he began to savor the velvet-soft flesh hidden beneath the tunic draping her back. With a delicate touch he followed the line of fragile bones, teasing, stroking, as if coaxing a sweet tune from the finest instrument. His senses, greedy for the touch and taste and scent of her, led his body down a path as familiar to him as it certainly was alien to her. She aroused him to the brink of torture.

  “Come.” He swept her into his arms as if she weighed no more that a goose-down pillow. In the back of the lodge, beyond where the opening in the roof ushered in cooling night breezes, a mound of furs lay strewn on a low wooden platform. He carried her to the bed, laid her down, and knelt beside her.

  “Now I will teach you to be a woman.”

  Chapter 7

  Catherine luxuriated in the embracing warmth of the pelts. Rive lay at her side, propped on one elbow. Despite her innocence, she was not ignorant of a man’s desire. She knew Rive wanted her, indeed meant to have her. He bent lower, fingered the necklaces draped across her breasts and slowly removed them. One barrier gone. His hand brushed the hem of her skirt, which had crept above her knees. She shook her head so violently the ends of her hair whipped against his face and throat. It seemed to have no adverse effect on him, but at least it roused her from her near dreamlike state.

  “Why do you hate me? I have done nothing to warrant it. You say your quarrel is with my husband ...”

  He pressed a finger gently to her lips. “Husband? No, I think not. He bears the title in name only and not in deed. That, Catherine, is something I have every right to reserve for myself.”

  He bent closer, his face only inches from hers. With one hand he traced the curve of her cheek; his other hand became lost in the spill of hair swept back from her brow. Heat blossomed where his thumb skimmed lightly along her chin. Her skin prickled and tingled, and his touch sent the blood rushing in a torrent to her head. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, and his tongue teased the line drawn tight against his unhurried assault. Then he slowly parted her lips.

  She gasped and was immediately silenced by his mouth. His hands took command of her body. A leisurely descent from the nape of her neck and down her bare arms tortured her flesh. He hooked a thumb under the hem of her tunic and lifted it slowly. His mouth left hers to explore the newly uncovered flesh, then moved higher until the tip of his tongue found the underside of each breast. Sensations—unfamiliar and never before contemplated—invaded her body. She felt herself beginning to respond as if something unfathomable inside her craved the things he was doing to her, as if the blood pounding against her temples in an insane and uncontrolled rhythm didn’t matter.

  “No!”

  How to mobilize her forces? How to meet each thrust and parry of his tongue, to counter the exquisite sensation that swept through her as his palm massaged first one nipple, then the other, leaving them stiff and engorged? How to stop this madness? She knew it would cost her very soul to tempt the devil into saving her from a most certain fate. Rive had come to her as a lover, his desire evident. Never would she willingly offer her body to him. Nor would she give the devil his due tonight. If she must lose her virtue to a savage who dared call himself a saint, then she vowed to see it done without bargaining or detestable fits of weeping.

  “Yes!”

  He swept aside the tunic, fully exposing her breasts to his view.

  “Let me go. I cannot breathe!” She struck at his arms. Her blows glanced off his body, accomplishing nothing. They did at least bolster the charade that she was capable of putting up a spirited defense.

  “If you can talk, my sweet, than you can breathe.” He looked into her eyes. “You have a vexing tendency to talk too much.”

  She stole a fleeting glance at his face then dropped her gaze, shutting out the heated passion in his deep-set emerald eyes. The flame still burned in the clay bowl and cast a muted glow. Flickering shadows danced against the rough walls of the lodge like hazy figures in a dream.

  “Look at me, Catherine. Let me see your eyes.”

  She pressed her lids closed, ignored his command. Even so, his face, the individual features of which came together to form a perfect whole, seemed impressed indelibly in her mind. That such a face must have had an extraordinary effect on women—and was she not to be counted in their number?—was not difficult to imagine. She bit her lower lip, angry at herself for responding to him.

  “You look as if you are about to be tortured, but I assure you that is not my intent.”

  “Then your definition is contrary to mine. We share no common opinions.”

  He caught her lower lip and teased it lightly with his mouth. Then he drew back. “Shall we put it to the test and see? Time, I suspect, will prove you wrong.”

  “What we shall see,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “is how long it will take you to die at the end of a rope.”

  “That again?” He gave a low laugh, as if her barbs delighted him. “You have threatened me so often with the noose, it has lost all meaning. I promise; the torment you are imagining can be of a most sweet nature.”

  Before she could distract him with words, he silenced her by capturing her lips with his and leisurely exploring her mouth with his tongue. She made a gallant attempt to strain away from him, but he cradled the back of her head with h
is strong hand and held her that much closer.

  Twisting beneath him, she tried to break the deepening kiss, to escape the slow movement of his palm as it curved about her breast. Her lungs filled with air and, for the life of her, she could not seem to expel it, or to reconcile the insidious thrill that swept through her body. The more he touched her, the more the sensation built and intensified. Once again, she felt an exquisite heat between her legs. This, then, was what urged a woman to seek a man’s bed, for to experience such a feeling and find no release would be torture indeed.

  She shivered, in part from the awareness that he could turn her body against her, but more from what he was doing with his hand. It had moved from her breast to the inside of her thigh, where the deerskin covering offered so little protection.

  “Please, don’t.” Drawing from somewhere deep within, she made one final effort to harness her wayward emotions.

  Her body stiffened, and with hands that were anything but steady, she pushed hard against his chest and eased as far from him as the circle of his arms allowed.

  * * * *

  He gazed deeply into her eyes. His hands now moved in slow seduction up along her sides, over delicate ribs, his thumbs furrowing her skin grown hot and moist to his touch. He stopped only to cup her high, firm breasts. Her body reminded him of a slender reed, yet she was very much a woman as evidenced by her instinctive response to his lovemaking. When she moved, he pulled her against him and molded her body’s soft contours to the strong, angular planes of his.

  Now, more than ever, he sought acquiescence from her. Yet, to his great disappointment, he found none. A measure of fear, yes, but more so, a steely determination to resist him. Perhaps he had been a fool to expect otherwise. She was chaste, he was certain, but passionate. He had discovered that with his lover’s tricks. He suspected, too, that if he were to ignore her plea, her body would eventually yield to him. Not her heart. There would be no affection in her coupling with him, and very soon thereafter she would come to hate him. Her disdain, more than anything, he did not wish.

  He pulled away from her and sat up. With legs bent and elbows resting on his knees, he raked his fingers through his hair. It took some minutes, but finally his breathing eased, and some of the tension left his body. Only then did he turn to her and plant a brief, chaste kiss upon her brow. With a sigh, he moved away and gained his feet.

  “Ah, these hollow victories.” He gazed down at her. With a weary smile, he went to the doorway and pushed aside the deerskin flap.

  He stepped outside to a night sky that blazed with stars. One streaked across the heavens in a white hot arc only to burn itself out moments later. The perfect metaphor for his mood.

  Chapter 8

  Catherine awoke to sunlight spilling through the opening in the lodge roof. Sounds reached her from outside—a woman’s laugh, children’s excited yells, a dog’s bark. The air smelled of smoke and the aroma of cooking meat. Last night, in spite of the luxurious comfort of her bed, she had lain awake for what seemed hours and then only managed to fall into a fitful sleep. Rive had not returned and, mercifully, she passed the night alone. Now, the warmth of the air suggested it must be well past dawn. She sat up and took stock of her surroundings.

  Besides the bed, the conical-shaped room held few furnishings. Several woven baskets of varying sizes and shapes hugged one wall. A crude table, little bigger than a footstool, supported a handful of stacked wooden bowls and a long-stemmed pipe. A deerskin pouch rested against one leg of the table. The mats mostly covering the hard-packed dirt floor appeared woven from sturdy grass; interspersed with those were several fur pelts like the ones on which she lay. Leather strips, intricately patterned with black, white, and red beads, hung against the wall, along with half a dozen carved wooden masks of fierce countenance.

  It was all quite primitive and unsettling. Her studies had made her aware that many natives roamed Colonial America. She had been curious as to what extent their lives and customs had been disrupted by the steady flow of Europeans who now lived in towns, cities and farms that encroached upon their lands. Certainly, the natives bore the colonists some resentment. So far, the people of this village had treated her with no disrespect. Apparently they knew her recent history and shared Rive’s view on the subject of Jeremy Flint.

  Even a fleeting thought of Flint was enough to ignite her anger. Because of his deceit, she had been abducted and almost bedded. Heat burned in her face at the memory of it. Nothing short of Divine Providence must have intervened to sway Rive from taking what he so bluntly declared as his right. She was the prisoner of a man who possessed the power to do as he wished with her. Yet he had left her with her virtue intact. But that was last night; this morning he might already have regretted his decision.

  Such a disturbing thought hastened her from the bed. The grass mats beneath her feet brought a welcome coolness, and on one of these she found a neatly folded garment and a pair of deerskin slippers. The garment was a homespun shirt, apparently clean and of a not too expansive size. Obviously it had been placed there for her use, which puzzled her. The abbreviated tunic she wore might certainly have been considered adequate, since some of the Indian women wore little above the waist.

  She slipped out of the tunic and quickly donned the shirt. After tucking it under her skirt, she pulled it down until it extended past her knees. Its purpose, she guessed, was to act like a shift. The sleeves’ ragged edges reached just below her elbows. Someone had made concessions to her modesty, but not the women who dressed her the night before. That left only one person—Rive.

  She sighed. In spite of her education, which fed her inquisitive mind and provided at least a rudimentary understanding of the world, she did not possess the tools necessary to understand him. Last week he had cold-bloodedly planned her abduction; then, with no one to stay him, he could have ravaged her with the same callous disregard. Yet he had not. Why?

  The answer was as complex as the man. This morning she felt no inclination to unravel the mystery.

  Instead, she continued dressing, stepping into the slippers, which fit well enough, grateful to have something to protect her feet. Further investigation turned up a wooden bucket filled with fresh water and a primitive comb such as the one the women had used on her hair. She settled on a mat and washed her hands and face, relishing the coolness of the water. The comb worked surprisingly well, and she pulled it through her hair until her scalp tingled.

  She supposed she should thank Rive for the clothing. When he chose, he could be very considerate. He had proved it often during the time they had spent together in the forest. He kept her well fed each day and as comfortable as possible at night. She had happily accepted the makeshift bed he always made for her. He respected her privacy when she performed her simple toilette, and there were times when she had almost forgotten his treachery.

  Then there was last night ...

  “Madame?”

  The voice calling from just outside the doorway brought Catherine to her feet. It was a man’s voice, familiar, but not Rive’s.

  “Who is it?”

  “Louis Villet. I have brought you something to eat.” There was a pause. “May I enter?”

  Louis. Rive’s friend and accomplice, the man who had pled her cause that first night. Had he wondered if Rive had taken his words of caution to heart? Surely he knew his friend well enough to recognize he sought no counsel other than his own. Hence, Louis might naturally assume she had spent the night in Rive’s bed. What could she say to dispel the notion without adding doubly to her embarrassment? She knew she must appear like a vagabond in this odd assortment of clothing.

  She could pretend she didn’t hear him. However, her stomach felt as empty as a beggar’s purse. She needed nourishment.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  He looked exactly as she remembered him from the night of her abduction—compact, sturdy, and exceedingly bowlegged. His eyes bore a gentle expression.

  “Rive asked me to bring you som
ething to eat. It’s simple fare—venison, blackberries, nuts and a corn cake. I think you’ll find them to your liking.”

  A peace offering? Was it possible Rive did actually possess a conscience? If so, could this be his way of acknowledging his guilt?

  “He rode out at sunrise and did not want to disturb your rest. It is not too early for you, I hope.”

  “No.” Catherine took the bowl of food and set it on the bed. Later she would devour it, but first she must speak with Louis. From the conversation she overheard the night of her abduction, she believed him sympathetic to her plight. She had so many questions. Perhaps he would not be as parsimonious with his answers as his friend.

  Where, however, should she begin? Not having anticipated his arrival, she’d had no time to plan. He seemed ready to leave her to her breakfast.

  “Have you known Rive long?” It was the first thought to spring into her mind.

  “Oh, yes, since he was a boy.” Louis’ face split into a wide grin.

  “You have great affection for him.”

  “But of course.”

  “You met in France?”

  For a moment he looked puzzled. “I have never been to France, Madame. It is here I first made his acquaintance.”

  Now it was Catherine’s turn at puzzlement. “Here?” She sensed he meant this Indian village.

  “Did you meet during the two years when he lived among these people?”

  “He has spoken to you about those years?”

  She could not decide if he was surprised or relieved to think Rive had confided any of his personal history to her. Clearly, if she led him to believe he had, she could more easily draw him into her confidence. Yet, she could not bring herself to trick him. Not just because he would eventually discover her deception, but because it was not in her nature to deceive. Also, she needed an ally. Louis, she hoped, would assume that role.