Law, Susan Kay

by Traitorous Hearts

  His fingers were deft, and he dealt with her corset with one pull on the single string. With a slight grimace, he flipped it, too, somewhere in the gloom behind him.

  "I wouldn't have thought you would wear one of those."

  "It comforts Mother."

  "Still..." His hands circled her waist, rubbing with gentle care. "You certainly don't need one."

  "I'm hardly small, Jonathan."

  "Compared to me..."

  "Compared to you, Goliath was small."

  "Perhaps." His gaze traced over her slowly, and the flash of blue in his eyes told her how much he liked what he saw. "Do you know what a pleasure it is, not to have to worry about a woman's fragility or my clumsiness?"

  The snug waistband of her petticoats suddenly loosened, and she knew he'd already untied the tapes. "You are never clumsy unless you intend it."

  "Lift up." She complied, and the fine cambric whispered over her skin as he slipped her chemise over her head. She was sensitized by his touch and his kisses, and the slight friction of the fabric felt nothing like it ever had before. It was no longer innocuous and everyday; now it hinted of caresses and hidden pleasures.

  Her shoes and stockings were the work of a moment. He paid no attention to her hesitation and stripped off her petticoats and pocket tapes.

  His obvious approval left little room for modesty. She lay there, sprawled naked against the scratchy blanket, and his gaze was almost a touch.

  As stunning as the time before had been, with the thunder and impenetrable blackness, the addition of sight seemed to sharpen her other senses. It was arousing simply to watch the play of emotions on his face, to see his nostrils flare, his eyes darken, and his features sharpen, and to know that she had caused it.

  He was beautiful, lit with fire and passion. But he wore far too many clothes.

  She sat up and reached for the neck of his shirt. He caught her hands and stopped her.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Beth..." There was a flicker of something disturbing in his eyes.

  "Please. I want to see you."

  His jaw twitched and he nearly ripped off the leather jerkin. He yanked the shirt over his head and balled it up, hurling it almost violently against the sharply slanting roof of the loft.

  The wrappings of the bandage slashed white across his chest, drawing her attention. It seemed almost sacrilegious to scar that sculpted perfection, yet it had happened twice.

  His muscles bulged as he stretched out beside her, and once more his gaze swept her body.

  "You still wear the beads." His voice held a note of wonder.

  She swallowed. "Always."

  He traced them, his fingers circling the base of her neck, sliding over the swell of her breast, grazing her nipple, then trailing along the underside.

  "I never thought..." His finger rounded the curve and began to follow the beads up the other side. "They are just cheap seeds. Yet, against your skin, they glow like pearls."

  She quivered as his hand passed over her other nipple.

  "Here, let me," he murmured.

  She lifted her head slightly and he slipped the beads over it, gently disentangling the necklace from her hair. Holding on to one end of the strand, he pooled it on her belly. The beads, smooth and rounded, were warm from her skin. He trailed them over her, drawing them through the valley between her breasts, then letting them slide over her nipple. Over and over, he caressed her with the necklace.

  The touch was almost too much, yet not nearly enough. The seeds skated over her skin, a fluid, sinuous strand, like the purling of water. He dribbled it across the line of her hip and drew it over her waist. She shifted restlessly, needing more.

  "Open your legs."

  Unable to think clearly enough to do anything else, mesmerized by the husky rumble of his voice, she let her thighs part.

  "So beautiful," he whispered. The beads slid easily against her flesh. Tiny darts of sensation shot through her.

  "Jonathan... please."

  And instead of the beads, there was his hands and his mouth. His touch was reverent, whispering over her skin. He tasted her breasts, and his hands explored her inner arms. He licked the hollow of her throat and stroked her ribs. He nipped her shoulder, and his palms polished her hips.

  His touch poured over her, drowning her in sensation. And his words poured over her too.

  The difference stunned her. The first time had been hushed, their silence broken only by the sound of thunder and their breathing. Now he spoke softly, continuously, telling her she was lovely, how feminine the curve of her belly was, how womanly her thighs. The silky swath of his hair swept over her with the equally smooth sweep of his tongue. Each part he touched, he tasted. And each part he tasted, he praised.

  Heat shimmered along her skin, and need quivered within her. She was overwhelmed, almost frightened.

  "Jonathan, please," she said again, desperately.

  "Yes."

  His hair brushed her stomach, and she felt his hands slip under her to cup the curve of her buttocks. The heat of his breath shocked her; the touch of his tongue nearly made her cry. She tried to protest, tried to say stop, but she couldn't get her mouth to form his name, only an incoherent moan.

  The pleasure was excruciating, just shy of too much. His tongue was gentle velvet, but the stubble of his beard rasped the soft flesh inside her thigh. She felt herself tightening, felt the beginning clench of pleasure... and she was unbearably, achingly empty.

  "No!" Sitting up, she tugged on his hair to pull him up to her. "Jonathan, no."

  He settled himself next to her then, and with fingers that shook ever so slightly, brushed damp tendrils of hair from her temples. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

  "I'm so... empty."

  He stared at her for a moment, his expression harsh, and for an instant she wondered if she'd done something unforgivable in stopping him. Then he smiled gently and slipped his hand down her body.

  His middle finger slid deeply, naturally into her body. She gasped, and the pleasure began to spiral through her again.

  But it wasn't enough.

  She pushed his hand away.

  "Please," she repeated. Hesitantly, she brushed her knuckles over his hardness. He sucked in his breath, and she reached for the buttons on his breeches.

  He grabbed her hand and flattened it against his hip.

  "I can't."

  "Why?" she asked, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. His gaze sought hers, and his eyes were clouded, unreadable. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and a muscle in his jaw bulged.

  Finally, he swore and jerked to his feet. He ripped at the fastening of his breeches, and Bennie was distantly surprised when one tore. He yanked his drawers and breeches off in one motion and dropped them aside.

  He towered over her, his feet spread, his hands planted on his hips. His chest heaved, his hair lay loose on his shoulders, his erection jutted boldly from his body, and he was every mythic god come to vital, vivid flesh.

  He dropped to his knees between her thighs, slipping his arm around her hips and lifting her to meet him. She felt him slide into her slowly, and she was empty no longer.

  Levering down, he brought his stomach flush with hers, but kept his weight from her by propping himself up with his elbows.

  But she wanted his weight. Digging her nails into his shoulders, she brought him closer. He gave a strangled sigh and went still. She waited for the wonderful rhythm to begin, but he didn't move.

  Unable to wait any longer, she tilted her hips to deepen the contact.

  "Oh, God," he whispered, and began to move, stroking deep and long and slow.

  She kept her eyes open, watching his face above her. Even with the lines of his face sharpened by strain, his eyes nearly closed, and his teeth clenched, he was beautiful, all male power and sexuality.

  "God, Beth... I can't... please..." he said urgently.

  She'd been nearly there before; now, pleasure burst through her, suddenly and w
ithout warning. Closing her eyes at last, she threw back her head and let go.

  Maybe he was going to be able to manage it. Beth was shuddering beneath him, her face exquisitely lovely in ecstasy. He ground his molars together with such force his jaw ached. He purposely put more weight on his left shoulder, welcoming the pain that shot down from his wound. It was the only thing that kept him from his own release.

  She was calming now, giving soft sobs of pleasure he found unbearably sweet. He thrust once more, and was rewarded by her small convulsion. Finally, he pulled out and fell to one side. She was still shaking, and he gathered her close, soothingly sweeping his hand down the soft curve of her back.

  She stirred slightly.

  "Don't move." Her lush form nestled against him was nearly driving him to madness, but he couldn't deny himself at least that much pleasure.

  She sat up and, with a characteristic gesture, shoved her tumbled curls away from her face. Her eyes blazed.

  "What the hell was that about?"

  "Uh, what do you mean?"

  "You know very well what I mean!" She glared accusingly at his still-erect member.

  "Beth..."

  "Just your way of saying thank you? Well, no thank you!"

  She was gorgeous, all fiery and outraged. And she was too far away.

  He held out his arms. "Come here."

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

  "I'll try and explain it to you. If I can. I'd rather hold you while I'm doing it."

  She bit her lip, then gave in, nestling against him as if she belonged there. He gave a sigh of satisfaction and threaded his fingers through the luxuriant length of her hair.

  "You are so beautiful."

  "That's hardly a reason to stop when you did."

  He gave a small laugh—no easy feat, considering the condition of his lower body. "No." He found her hand and twined his fingers with hers. "What I did to you before, Beth. It was unforgivable."

  "Jonathan—"

  "Quiet. How am I supposed to explain when you insist on interrupting me?" He squeezed her hand lightly. "It was bad enough that I made love to you, pretending to be something I wasn't. But did you ever consider that you might have gotten pregnant?"

  He felt her sudden stillness. "Yes."

  "That was the worst thing I did, Beth. I might have been leaving you to bear a child alone and unmarried. I won't—I can't—take that chance again."

  "Jonathan," she said crisply. "Two of my four sisters-in-law had babies less than seven months after their weddings. It's hardly unheard of."

  "It's not that simple." He allowed himself to drop a kiss on the top of her head. Surely that wouldn't strain his still-insistent passions. "They did get married, after all. I had—have—no idea if I'll ever be back. And even if I do come back I couldn't marry you. There is no way I could do that and maintain the illusion of Lieutenant Jon. You would be left alone, to bear the child of an enemy. You could probably never marry. Would your family stand by you then?"

  He took her silence as her answer.

  "I can't take your family from you too. I've already taken far too much."

  She disengaged her hand. He'd convinced her, he thought, even as vicious regret pierced him.

  And then she touched him. He was still slick from her, and her palm slipped easily over him, circling, gliding, stroking. Despite himself, he arched up into her hand.

  "Beth..." he protested weakly.

  "Don't I have any choice in this, you foolish man?"

  Let her, his body demanded. Although he deserved the frustration, was there so much honor in sacrifice? This was safe. This wouldn't cause her any real harm. She couldn't get pregnant.

  He was a foolish man, she thought. He didn't know the Joneses at all if he thought her family wouldn't stand by her. And in all likelihood, she would never marry anyway. She would take what fate gave her. It was her choice.

  He was hot, hard, and silky beneath her hand, vibrantly alive. His eyes were closed now, his breath coming in sharp gasps, and he jerked slightly with each stroke of her hand.

  She moved swiftly, straddling him.

  "No, Beth!"

  "Yes," she said. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop."

  He couldn't answer, could only think of the feel of her soft, hot flesh closing around him.

  "Yes," she repeated with satisfaction. "It's my decision too, Jonathan."

  She sank down on him, and he filled her even more completely than he had before. Tiny, unexpected bursts of pleasure tingled down her spine.

  He shuddered and threw back his head. With a hoarse shout, his back bowed up, and she felt his warmth flood her.

  CHAPTER 24

  She lay sprawled across his chest. He smoothed her hair, and his fingers followed the line of her spine with exceptionally slow, languorous movements.

  "Oh, Jonathan," she whispered, turning her head with tremendous effort to press a kiss into the hollow of his throat. "It felt as if you were pouring your soul into me."

  "God, I hope so." He cradled her face, lifting it so she could look into his eyes, eyes that were filled with churning emotion. "It's certainly better off in your hands than mine."

  "You're not angry?"

  He raised his head and brought her mouth to his. There was no passion in this kiss; the touch of their lips was a communion, a vow.

  He leaned back and brushed his fingers down the line of her jaw. "I promised myself I wasn't going to do that to you again."

  "You didn't do anything to me." He could find no regret in her eyes, in her voice, and the sharp tang of his own guilt was muted. "You did something with me," she finished softly.

  He regarded her seriously. "Promise me you won't be sorry."

  "I won't be," she said, and the glow in the warm brown depths of her eyes reassured him. "Life is so... fragile right now. I don't think it's wrong for us to take a little joy where we can find it."

  "I'll try to be in touch with you regularly. If you should find yourself..." He paused, swallowing the sudden thickness in his throat. "With child, send for me, and I will find a way to come to you."

  "It's too dangerous."

  "Promise me," he demanded, command ringing in his voice, and she suddenly realized, that along with his talents as an agent, here was a man who would be extraordinarily skilled at leading others.

  "All right," she agreed.

  "I may not be able to see you myself," he warned her.

  "How will I know if someone comes from you?"

  "He—or she—will say..." He grinned suddenly, with a roguish, mischievous bent that warmed her heart. What a charmer he would be, she thought, if he were free of the demands of battling nations. "'Job's tears.'"

  Heat flashed through her, and she lowered her lashes.

  He chuckled and rolled her beneath him. His weight was heavy and delicious, settling comfortably between her thighs, and he kissed her with a complete thoroughness that quickly turned embarrassment into abandon.

  Regretfully, he broke away. The skin beneath her ear tempted him, and he licked it slowly. How could any skin be so soft, he thought hazily?

  "It's dark," he mumbled. "I should go."

  Her fingers raked through his hair, and her voice was laced with amusement. "How long could it take?"

  He laughed and moved farther down her body.

  "Not long."

  ***

  The darkness was thick, nearly impenetrable. She was glad of it, because she didn't want him to see her face.

  She knew this man so little, knew nothing of what drove him, what shaped him, what he thought. But she knew one thing—he was a man who'd shouldered more than his share of guilt and regret. And she knew too that for him to see her sadness would only add to his burden.

  "Do you want me to walk you back to the house?" he asked, hoping to prolong the torture just a bit. If he'd known how much it would hurt to leave her, would he ever have come to her in the first place? But then he felt her body c
ome close to his, her arms wrap around his waist, her head settle on his chest, and he knew the question was absurd.

  Of course he would have.

  "No," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "I'll stay here and pack up a bit."

  "Fine."

  He smelled so good, and his chest was hard and smooth beneath the softness of the linen shirt. She rubbed her cheek against it. "You will be careful, won't you?"

  "I promise."

  She squeezed her eyes tightly against the sting. "You'd better. I'll come and make sure you'll regret it if you aren't."

  His laughter was strained. "You will, will you?"

  "Yes. Joneses are notorious for taking their revenge if someone breaks a promise to them, you know. No telling what I might do to you."

  "Well, I'd better take care, then." His arms closed around her, belying the lightness in his tone. "Beth, I'm s—"

  "If you're going to apologize again, I'm going to hurt you worse than that ball you took in your shoulder did," she said fiercely.

  "Only if you promise to nurse me back to health."

  He could stand there and hold her forever. In fact, how easy it would be never to go back. He could stay here and love her the way she deserved to be loved. Instead of death and betrayal, his days and nights would be filled with lavender and sunshine.

  But if he didn't return, all the terrible, haunting things he'd done already would be for naught. They— he—only held value in the completion of his task. And he knew that even Beth wouldn't be enough to keep the memories at bay.

  "Good-bye."

  He was gone with only a whisper of sound, so soft it could have been the sighing of an errant breeze. She didn't know how he managed, in the absolute darkness, to find the ladder and make his way down it without fumbling, but she wasn't surprised. His senses seemed beyond those of ordinary mortals, and she'd discovered that moving with utter silence was as natural to him as breathing was to lesser men.

  She stood there, frozen, fighting the trembling that threatened to overtake her. The darkness cloaked her, welcoming, mysterious, vaguely comforting, and a single, desolate melody played through her mind.

  ***

  Jon trudged through the narrow streets of Boston. He grimaced, reaching down to tug at his stockings. The shoes Beth had given him were a shade too tight and had rubbed the skin at the back of his heel raw.