Chase the Dawn

by Jane Feather

  “You will not founder.” She sucked his finger into her mouth, her tongue stroking, hot and sensuous. “No more than I shall.” Her eyes locked with his as she continued the wicked caress of his finger, a caress that danced with symbolic promise, until he could bear the suspense no longer and placed his hand along the fragile line of her jaw, lifting her chin as he took her mouth with his own, gently at first. But when she strained against him, her hands linking behind his neck, his tongue thrust within the warm, moist cavern, seeking her own to join in a dance of spiraling desire.

  Her mouth burned, bruised beneath the demanding pressure, but she felt no discomfort, only the towering need to lose herself in his body. Utterly absorbed in the magic of this desperate compulsion to be one with the other, they lost all sense of the room around them, of the bed beneath them, seeking only the limitless rapture of the present.

  Benedict, without loosing her mouth, slid down beside her, smoothing his hands over her back, spanning her hips as he pressed her to his lower body so that the hard throb of his need pulsed against her thigh. Bryony whispered her pleasure at the feel of him as she unclasped her hands from his neck and brought them down to the waistband of his britches, sliding her flat palm within. She felt him draw up her shift, uncovering her knees, her thighs, then upward to raid the curves and hollows of her body, the deep secret places, with an inexorable trespass that sent shivers of fire and ice rippling across her bared skin. In her urgency, her fingers fumbled with the buttons at his waist, and he drew back from her long enough to rid himself of his shirt and britches before taking the hem of her shift and peeling it off over her head.

  Bryony gave a deep sigh of joyous satisfaction as her nakedness at last met his and their tender explorations could continue unobstructed. They were revisiting each other’s body, rediscovering the pleasure centers, and finding that the long months of denial had sharpened rather than blunted the keen edge of joy. Her fingernails trailed over the hardness of his flanks as his tongue swept the curve of her breast before circling the hard, tight bud at its crown. She groaned, bringing her hand round to the front of his body, twisting in the crisp triangle of hair that snaked down from his belly to the point where sprang the silken shaft of his manhood. She took him between her hands even as her body arched upward to the caress of his roving tongue, and she heard his soft exhalation of pleasure, felt it as a zephyr undulating across her belly.

  He swung astride her then, reversing his position so that they could both play freely, and for an eternity it seemed they cavorted in sensate bliss, running the gamut from savage delight to the most sensitive inventiveness. If Ben had been truly afraid of failing her, it had been a baseless fear. Buried in her sweetness, he took her from peak to peak, nibbling and probing at her essence until tears of joy stood out in her eyes and she felt as if she had no more to give, and could receive no more. But she was wrong.

  When at last his own need could no longer be delayed, Ben turned and moved over her, slipping his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her to meet him as he surged within the moist, welcoming entrance to her body. His face melted with pleasure as her velvety softness tightened around him, and she curled her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper.

  “Oh, lass,” he whispered softly. “I have missed you beyond words.” He brushed her eyelids with his lips, took her mouth again so that she could taste herself upon his lips and tongue, then, intent and powerful, he swept her with him beyond the barriers of sensation. With each ever-deepening thrust, the golden world of ecstasy swelled. Bryony could feel his body thrumming with the vibrations of his pleasure as he plumbed the very depths of her soul, and she yielded herself unsparingly, meeting his need with her own, in the rise and fall of fusion. And at the last, when the bright bubble of rapture burst around them and they soared in elemental joy for the moments that seemed infinite, he stifled her cry with his mouth, holding her tightly as the convulsions shuddered her slender frame, racking her from head to toe.

  “What are we going to do?” Bryony whispered as a totally unexpected, utterly inappropriate wave of sadness washed through her. She clung to him, her deep blue eyes tear-bright.

  Ben wiped the salty smudges from her cheeks with his thumb and kissed her again. “It’s all right, lass,” he said gently. “Don’t fight the sadness. It happens sometimes when one has touched the peak of bliss. Coming down is not easy.” He disengaged slowly, delicately, rolling onto the bed, drawing her into the circle of his arms.

  “But what are we going to do?” she repeated. “I don’t understand anything anymore. Why did you come?”

  He brushed back her hair, asking prosaically, “Do you have a handkerchief somewhere, sweeting? You are making me very soggy.”

  She thrust her hand under the embroidered pillow, pulled out a scrap of lace-edged chiffon, and blew her nose vigorously before offering him a watery smile. “I beg your pardon. I can’t imagine what came over me.”

  “I can.” Tugging the pillows behind him, Benedict propped himself up and drew Bryony with him. “Ask your questions, lass, and those I can answer, I will.”

  “There are so many.” A final, decisive sniff and Bryony pushed back her hair in that characteristic gesture. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  He chuckled. “Then I will tell the story and you may interrupt me as you wish.”

  Bryony listened without interruption as he told her that he intended to become a party to Major Ferguson’s plans for his Loyalist army; that when he had learned enough, he would take his information to the American forces, at which point he would himself join with them in open battle; that this was his last undercover operation.

  “You are here, in my father’s house, as spy, then?” she queried slowly when he had finished.

  Benedict looked at her sharply. “Have you discovered that you are, after all, a committed Loyalist, my little patrician?” he asked, unable to prevent the shaft of derision in his voice, which had nothing really to do with her.

  “No,” Bryony replied, ignoring his tone, recognizing its irrelevance, even though she did not yet understand it completely. “I do not appear to care much one way or the other. But I am loyal to my father.”

  “And you will betray me?”

  “You know I will not. But it is uncomfortable to be torn between two such allegiances.” It was a quiet, dignified statement, which told him more clearly than a passionate outburst would have done how deeply she could be hurt by his mission. He had seen her with her father, and the closeness that existed between them would have been obvious to a blind man. Much as he abhorred everything that the Pagets stood for, he could not deny the power of a familial love that had nothing to do with the world’s struggles.

  “I, also, am torn,” he said softly. “What I feel for Bryony Paget cannot come in the way of my work. Miss Paget is her father’s daughter, is she not?”

  “Then why did you come to me tonight?”

  “Because it would take a stronger man than I to resist the promise of such bliss. My reasons for entering your father’s house were twofold. I wished also to see for myself how you were faring, perhaps to tie up the loose ends that lay between us.”

  “And now that you have done so?”

  A rueful smile touched his lips. “We have tied no loose ends, lass, merely unraveled another strand.”

  “And I ask again, what are we to do?”

  “Enjoy what we have for as long as we have it,” he replied, knowing it was no satisfactory answer for either of them, but it was all he had to offer. “You remain betrothed to Mr. Cullum, I understand.” It was but a slight shift of subject.

  “Only until one of us comes up with a means of breaking the engagement without telling the truth,” she replied. “I have managed to achieve an extension of the betrothal until Christmas, but it’s merely postponing the inevitable.” Her fingers plucked restlessly at the sheet, and he laid his own over them, stilling the nervous gesture with strong warmth.

  “The gentleman is most fon
d of you, Bryony. It’s very clear in his manner.”

  “As I am of him. But it does not alter the facts.” She sighed. “Francis is also very perceptive, and he has always been quick to see things that concern me, sometimes even before I realize them myself.”

  Benedict nodded. “And what do you think he has seen now, lass?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing specific—except for that moment when I tripped on the path and you caught me.”

  “It was innocent enough.”

  At that she smiled. “It was not, and you know it. I am not an accomplished conspirator, Mr. Clare, unlike yourself.”

  Benedict let this pass for the moment. “Will Mr. Cullum keep his own counsel?”

  “He’ll not betray me, if that’s what you mean,” she responded swiftly. “But he may press for explanations, and I am a poor liar.”

  “A poor liar and an inexperienced conspirator!” Benedict laughed in a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood. “My sweet, there are devious pleasures to be gained from being successful at both. I will teach you.”

  “Well, I hope you have more success than you had trying to turn me into a fisherman.” Bryony picked up the cue deftly, turning to snuggle into his hold, flicking his nipples with the tip of her tongue, tasting the salty sweetness of his skin. If she could see it as a game—a game with high stakes, certainly—then she would not have to think about loyalties and betrayal, and they could deal in the present without the intrusion of a divided future. There was peace and happiness, exquisite joy to be garnered as fruits of the present, so why should she not eat, drink, and be merry? For who knew what tomorrow would bring.

  Bryony, I would like you to attend us in the library after breakfast.” Sir Edward addressed his daughter the following morning as she came into the hall, drawing off her riding gloves. “Mr. Clare, I am certain you will wish to join our deliberations.” He looked questioningly at his daughter’s companion.

  Benedict handed his whip and gloves to the servant waiting to take them. “By all means, Sir Edward.” He brushed a smudge of dust from his sleeve. “Miss Paget has been showing me around your estate. I must congratulate you on your excellent husbandry.”

  Sir Edward smiled with pleasure. “It is a poor landowner who neglects his land, Clare.”

  “True enough,” replied Benedict. “But that is a lesson not taken to heart by most Irish landlords. I might venture to ask when you last paid a visit to your estates there?” The light smile took all possibility of offense from the question, offered rather an understanding complicity. Only Bryony, seeing the sudden flatness of the black eyes, was able to detect the hint of contemptuous anger, which puzzled her mightily. What had the Pagets’ Irish estates to do with Benedict Clare?

  Paget laughed, laying a friendly hand over his guest’s shoulders, easing him toward the dining room. “I leave such matters to my steward, Clare, as you so rightly guessed. Nothing else to do with them. The tenants are an idle lot, more interested in the shebeen than in farming, and they breed like rabbits.” He stood aside to allow his guest and daughter to precede him to the breakfast table.

  A shiver ran through Benedict’s powerful frame, communicating itself like ground lightning to the slender figure beside him. Gazing up at him, Bryony gave a little gasp as she met his opaque stare, which seemed to bore straight through her. He was looking at her as he had done during that last miserable week in the woods after he had discovered her identity. It was a look of intense dislike and, as then, she could not imagine what she had done to warrant it. And she could not ask him, not here in the crowded dining room, where the weekend guests were consuming in leisurely fashion the substantial breakfast that must fortify them until late afternoon.

  With a muttered word of excuse, she left his side and made for the door. “Bryony, where are you going? You have not breakfasted,” Eliza called from the sideboard, where she was supervising the refilling of the silver chafing dishes.

  “I must change my dress, Mama,” Bryony responded with an effort. “I have been riding.” She fled before her mother could make further comment. Riding dress was quite acceptable at the breakfast table, although most definitely not at dinner, and there was no reason at all why she should feel the need to change.

  “It’s most unlike Bryony to worry about coming to table in her dirt,” Francis Cullum observed casually, pulling out a chair beside his own for Benedict. “She’s much more likely to be sent off by Lady Paget to wash her hands and comb her hair—even these days.” He laughed, and Benedict, putting away the dull anger that had filled him at Sir Edward’s words, returned the laugh, finding himself accepting the little intimate confidence as if he had a right to it. And then he remembered what Bryony had said about Francis Cullum’s perspicacity.

  “You have known Miss Paget for some time, I gather?” He helped himself to a slice of cold venison.

  “Since we were children,” Francis replied.

  “Then you must know her very well.” Ben sipped his coffee, his tone pleasant and neutral.

  “I usually understand her, Mr. Clare,” responded his neighbor. “You had a pleasant ride, I trust?”

  “Most pleasant, I thank you.”

  “Mmm.” Francis sounded distinctly skeptical. “I wonder what could have happened to upset her, then.”

  Benedict’s lips tightened. “Not having the advantage of childhood intimacy, Mr. Cullum, I regret to say that I had not realized that anything had upset Miss Paget.”

  Francis merely smiled and pushed back his chair. “You will excuse me, Mr. Clare.” He sketched a bow and sauntered out of the dining room, leaving a very thoughtful Benedict to complete his breakfast. That conversation should not have taken place between two strangers about a woman who was betrothed to one and supposedly only slightly acquainted with the other. But what on earth could the man suspect? Not the truth, not in a millennium!

  Bryony, having changed and composed herself, returned to the dining room. Benedict was still there, protracting his meal in the hope that she would reappear. She wore a gown of sprigged muslin with a flowered gauze apron that emphasized her tiny waist. The rich dark hair was piled on top of her head, held with a knot of ribbon, and her face was pale and set, hurt bewilderment lurking in her eyes.

  Benedict cursed himself uphill and down dale as she responded to his greeting with the merest flicker of a smile that barely touched her lips. It had only been a moment, that flash of intense fury, but she had got in the way of it again, and now he must try to make amends while withholding the true explanation.

  “Might I beg a favor, Miss Paget?” he asked with a conciliatory smile.

  “I am yours to command, sir,” she responded dully. “It is my duty to ensure your comfort, and I am ever dutiful.”

  Ben whistled soundlessly. He caught Sir Edward glaring at Bryony, who flushed beneath the reproving scowl. It was her tone rather than the words that offered discourtesy, and Ben decided to ignore it, hoping thus to deflect her father’s ire. “You have been the soul of kindness and attention, Miss Paget,” he said swiftly. “As I mentioned on our ride, I am most interested in examining the workings of an estate of this size and was wondering if you would accompany me on a tour of the various service buildings. It’s a matter of some fascination to me to compare the way business is conducted here with the way it is at home.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” she replied promptly, and to Ben’s relief, her father seemed to relax and return his attention to the sirloin. Bryony rose from the table. “Do you care to go now?”

  “Pray finish your breakfast first,” Benedict protested politely.

  “I am finished, Mr. Clare, and am at your disposal.”

  “You will join us in the library on your return,” Sir Edward said. “We would welcome your suggestions, Mr. Clare.”

  Benedict bowed his assent, Bryony curtsied politely to her parents, and they moved through the open doors onto the rear terrace.

  “My thanks,” Bryony said a little stiffly, once they h
ad rounded the corner of the house and were walking across the paved courtyard toward the kitchen, in the sight only of domestic workers. “You rescued me from certain reproach.”

  Ben smiled ruefully. “It seemed hardly just that you should suffer censure for something that I caused.”

  “I do not understand what I did to provoke you. I have never understood it. But sometimes you look at me as if you hate me. How can you, after … after last night?” she whispered passionately.

  “I do not hate you, lass.”

  “But you have a powerful hatred for something … someone.” It was a statement, not a question, and Benedict offered no response.

  They reached the low building that housed the kitchen and storerooms. “Do you truly wish to go in?” asked Bryony. “We shall only be in the way. There is much to be done with thirty guests in the house.”

  “No, I don’t wish to go in.” Ben turned aside. “I thought that the pretext would afford us a degree of privacy. We’ll just walk around, and you’ll pretend to point out the various buildings and explain their functions.”

  “Are you really Benedict Clare?” Bryony asked as they reached the smokehouse.

  “Yes, I am a Clare.”

  “But why is such a one hiding in a Virginian wood, living like a backwoodsman, plundering and raiding those who fight for their king?” Bryony realized that for some reason, maybe in penitence, Benedict was more accessible to her questioning than he had ever been, and she fought to keep her head clear, to ask only the truly important questions so that she would not fritter away the opportunity.

  “There are plenty who do the same across the land, Bryony,” he responded. “Notwithstanding social position. There are those who wish for independence from a rule that takes but endows nothing. Is that so very wrong?”

  “There are those who would call it treason.”

  “And what do you call it, Miss Paget?” This time there was no mockery in his voice.