by Deana James
"So, you've returned." The earl leaned on his cane, his face gray. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth and divided his eyebrows.
"Frozen but alive." Piers's throat was so raw that he had almost no voice left.
The yellow light from several lanterns threw the men's shadows onto the cellar walls. Heavy burdens on their shoulders and in their arms distorted them into monstrous shapes. Mentally, the earl counted the pieces of cargo.
"It's all there, Larne," Piers rasped painfully. "Some of it we had to swim for, but eventually it was all unloaded and stowed in the wagons."
"And the Riding Officers?"
"Will and Jamie led 'em a merry chase for miles down the beach." This from Jack Beddoes, who had come up behind the viscount. "Finally lost 'em in the headlands. They'll be searching the caves for weeks, maybe months."
The earl nodded. "Good. Good. They'll be off our backs."
Beddoes grinned maliciously. "MacPherson'll have trouble getting his superiors to let him order another night like this."
"Excellent."
"I wouldn't be too sure." The viscount wearily mounted the stairs toward his father. "He's smart and stubborn. He's dedicated to his job. And unfortunately he's honest. He won't take a bribe and he won't take tonight's wild-goose chase as more than a momentary setback."
"Then perhaps we will just have to bribe someone higher up the line," Larne muttered speculatively.
Piers halted two steps below his father. "You'll keep on until you'll bring the whole thing down on us." He coughed deeply. "It gets more dangerous every time we go. MacPherson can search those caves for a month or more; but when he finds nothing, where will he come? Back here where Will and Jamie started from."
"And well lead him in a different direction and land the Spanish Girl in the headlands." Jack Beddoes slapped his gauntlets against his thigh. The wet leather cracked like a whip.
Larne stared down at the smuggler, but Piers did not so much as glance around. Wearily, he brushed by the earl. "And that greedy bastard is going to get himself killed," he murmured. "Unfortunately, well all probably go down with him."
At the cellar door stood Mrs. Felders, her face illuminated by the lamp she held to guide the earl's feet. At the viscount's remark, her face suffused with anger and her breath hissed in through her pursed lips.
************************************
Vivian started awake, jerking upright, the covers falling from her shoulders. She must have fallen asleep and allowed the fire to go out. The room was icy cold and dark except for a few red eyes of coals glowing faintly beneath the grate.
Slipping on her night robe, she hurried across the carpet to pile on more coal from the scuttle. Toes curled, teeth chattering so hard her jaws ached, she bent over to stir the bed into new life.
Suddenly, she distinctly heard the grating of the lock mechanism and the creak of hinges as the door to the viscount's room next to hers swung open. Like a hunted animal she whirled. The poker clattered from her hand. With a deafening noise it struck the fire tongs and whisk setting them to swinging and clanking in their stand. Fearfully she cowered against the mantel dreading what must come.
At first, silence greeted her confusion, to be broken by a murmured conversation between Piers and Watkins. She heard the door to Piers's room open and close again.
At the sound of its closing, Vivian fled breathlessly to her bed. Flinging out of her robe and burrowing under the covers, she pulled them tight up to her chin. The bed curtains had been tied back on one side and the foot. Between the posts she could see the door.
He was coming. So late. Surely he could not expect that she would be waiting for him. Surely he must be too exhausted after meeting the Spanish girl, whoever she might be. Watkins had probably come out the door and gone on quietly to his own much deserved rest.
Even as Vivian framed the thought, the handle of her door began to turn. Staring at the softly glowing brass in the light from the newly made fire, Vivian's eyes burned as she caught her breath and held it. So it was to be tonight.
Silhouetted in the doorway, tall and black, a light behind him, stood her husband. He wore a full-length robe of quilted velvet. In his right hand he carried the crystal carafe of brandy. His shadow falling before him made him appear incredibly tall before he stepped inside and closed the door. Slowly he walked across the room to the foot of her bed. Deliberately, he contemplated her across its length.
Now that he was really there a curious calm settled over her. The waiting was over. Her hands relaxed over the top of the covers. Slowly, she straightened out of the tight ball she had drawn herself into. She let out a long breath.
The fire hissed and spat sparks. The flame leaped high bathing the bed in red light. She was sure he could read trepidation in her face, although his was still hidden in shadows.
She felt a need to say something, but what? Where had he been? Why did he come so late? Wouldn't it be better to wait until another time when both of them were not so nearly exhausted? If only she had the power of speech, she could say so many things, offer so many alternatives.
At last when her nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point, he moved around the end of the bed. Her eyes followed him as he came between her and the fire, as he put his hand around the bedpost. They watched in a sort of trance as he set the carafe on the table. Wearily, he dropped down beside her, the mattress sagging beneath his weight. His face was visible now in the flames that flickered up as the fresh charcoal caught.
Her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of his ravaged countenance. He looked more gaunt than ever. Watkins had combed the wine-dark hair starkly back from his forehead where deep lines of strain and exhaustion crossed above his eyebrows. Dark smudges underscored his eyes. His mouth, set in a tight, mirthless smile, only deepened the creases running from the sides of his nose almost to his jaw. He might have been as old as his father.
Enigmatically, he stared at her for a full minute before reaching for the carafe. With practiced fingers he held the stopper and neck in one hand and poured a liberal tot into the water glass. Lifting it to his lips and tipping back his head, he tossed the fiery liquid down his throat. Bracing himself, he shuddered slightly and set the glass back on the table.
Raising one dark eyebrow, he spoke in a voice that rasped painfully out of his throat. "Vivian, dear wife, how kind of you to remain awake for me. I really hadn't expected it. And a warm and welcoming fire, too? You've gone to too much trouble."
Even as he spoke, his hand reached out. He rested its fingertips on her smooth cheek. "I expected you to be sound asleep."
His touch was so cold that Vivian flinched. Noticing her movement, Piers drew back instantly. "Sorry. I didn't realize." He tucked his fingers into the palms of his hands and lifted them to his mouth to blow on them. "I should have remembered." Rising wearily, he stalked to the fire. "The wind from the sea tonight was an icy knife. In fact more than my fingers are chilled to the bone."
Leaning up on one elbow, she watched him as he bent to the fire rubbing his hands briskly above the flames. Suddenly, she was glad she had lighted it, glad she had waited up even though she had done so out of fear rather than concern. A lock of his long, dark hair almost dry now swung forward to bisect his cheekbone. He turned his head to look at her with a wan smile.
He looked as she had first seen him, sitting beside his dying mother. Then as now his face was gaunt. Then as now he looked miserably unhappy and tired to death. A pang of sympathy tore at her heart. A pang of pity. A pang of tenderness.
He warmed his hands to his satisfaction, straightened and stretched, groaning as he did so. "That will have to do," he murmured. "I hope I don't cause you too much discomfort."
At his approach, she clutched the bedclothes to her neck and stared wide-eyed into the shadow of his tall form. Sighing softly at the expression he read there, he resumed his seat on the bed facing her. His right hand, now warm, but terribly rough as if it had been exposed to the most inclement
of weather covered both of hers and gently pressed the coverings down.
"You have nothing to fear, my lady," he murmured softly as the palm of his left hand gently caressed her shoulder pushing aside the silky braid resting on her breast.
Vivian drew a deep breath. Inwardly trembling, she kept her eyes on his face, watching his expression, seeking to read his feelings toward her. As she stared, his eyelids closed and his head sank to his chest.
Sightlessly, he continued to caress her shoulder. Just when she had begun to relax at that presumption of her person, he slipped his palm lower to find, as he had once before, the mound of her breast this time covered only by the thin lawn of her nightdress. "You feel beautiful," he sighed softly as he moved his hand in a circular motion, rubbing the warm flesh beneath the material. His hand was still quite cold. Perhaps the fire had only warmed the surface of the skin so the chill still seeped from his bones.
Nevertheless, the friction and the coolness caused her nipple to harden in his palm. Strangely disturbed by the peculiar feeling, she sucked her breath in sharply.
"Dear wife," he whispered as if he had been waiting for some response. "Does the rest of your body feel as warm and pleasant as your breast? Let me just—” Without finishing his sentence, he slipped both hands down to clasp her rib cage. At the same time, his thumbs circled the nipples of her breasts, circling, pressing, circling, pressing.
Vivian caught her lower lip between her teeth, afraid of the strength of her body's responses. Twisting under the gentle ministrations, she caught his wrists in her hands.
"No," he breathed. "Oh, no. Don't try to stop me. Be still. Better still, lie back." Gently he pressed her back into the bed before he took his hands away.
Rising stiffly, he unbelted the quilted robe. As he slipped it off, she caught her breath, staring at his body in utter fascination. He was naked underneath, his skin very, very white. Although she had seen his loins, they seemed somehow more than naked. As if the whole spectacular male creature were greater, more dominant than the parts. The dark hair arrowed up his belly and spread out in a light pelt across his lean, muscular chest.
In the dim light she could not tell whether it was the same color as the hair on his head. The thought of the dark red hair curling lightly on his white skin made liquid heat curl at the base of her belly. Involuntarily, she drew up one leg beneath the sheets and twisted onto her hip.
Recognizing the sensuous movements as the beginnings of sexual excitement, Piers tossed his robe across the foot of the bed. The very sight of him warmed her, whereas he-he was tired to death. Although the touch of her had excited him, he could not sustain the excitement.
His throat was so sore, he would be lucky if it did not turn putrid. His legs fairly trembled with exhaustion and his head pounded. He had not the strength for a long bout tonight. Certainly he did not have the strength to woo and bed a frightened demi-virgin.
Mentally, he cursed Larne. What was he doing here if not obeying the earl's command? He had ridden for hours through the icy night, stood beside and finally waded into the tumbling surf. The skin of his cheeks and nose had been freezing in the icy wind that literally froze the very breath an inch from his nose. A part of a human chain, he had passed dripping bundles and crates up a line. Now he had no physical reserves left. His body ached from toe to crown with exhaustion.
He looked at her face, the eyes wide with alarm, the pupils filling the pale iris. As he stared, she moistened her lips nervously. He had promised her no pain when he should come to her again. Certainly, she did not deserve a quick thrust and then oblivion.
Instead, she deserved a long, slow lovemaking with kisses and caresses. Yet here she was, waiting for him, her body stirring in nervous excitement and dread beneath the covers, her eyes like a haunted child's.
He slipped between the sheets and drew her to him. As he had expected, her untutored body was stiff and awkward. He had to lift her arms and put them around his shoulders. Then, he parted her thighs and lowered himself onto the bed.
Only the finest of lawn nightdresses separated their bodies, and hers felt on fire with embarrassment where his touched. He must be able to feel every bone, every curve, every- She shuddered at the intensity of the wave of feeling that started with her toes and flooded upward. Thank heavens, he could not see her face in the dimness.
"Oh, God, you feel so good," Piers murmured. "So incredibly warm. I had begun to think I was going to die of the cold." Her belly and breasts fairly radiated heat against his chilled skin. The insides of her thighs closed like warm silk about his flanks. He shifted and groaned in pleasure.
Pressed against him, Vivian hardly dared to breathe. How could he be not only unconcerned but positively luxuriating in their closeness? Her muscles were paralyzed by the smell and feel of him. His clean male scent, only slightly tainted by the brandy he had consumed, filled her nostrils.
And he was so cold. The expression "chilled to the bone" must describe his condition. Suddenly, his limbs and body began to shiver and his teeth to chatter as if he had allowed his tight controls to succumb to the cold that permeated his entire being.
Without thinking what she did, she wrapped her arms and legs tight around him and began to chafe his back with her hands.
"Umm-m. That's good. Ohh-h. Ohh."He pressed his forehead into the side of her neck. "God- I must be freezing you to death. Oh, that's good, that's good."
Gradually as she continued to warm him, he relaxed his limbs. The warmth of the bed and her body enclosed him. Gradually the shivering decreased in violence and finally stopped altogether. At last he lay still, his breath tickling her neck. She felt him tremble with weariness. Then he resolutely stiffened and raised his head off her shoulder.
"Kiss me," he whispered, his mouth hovering over hers.
Obediently, she met his lips with hers.
He lifted his head after only a brief pressure and sighed. "I know you're inexperienced, but at least open your mouth." He rested his forehead on her shoulder before he went on talking. "You kiss the way children kiss, and we're not children."
He kissed her again with better results. His tongue delved into her mouth, caressing her tongue, and running along the edge of her teeth. When she shivered and squirmed, he made a soft sound that might have been a chuckle.
"Did you like that?" he asked when he drew away for breath. Again his head dropped to her shoulder. Beneath his cheek lay her braid. He stroked it feeling its texture and shape with his fingers. He wound it around his hand and tugged at it gently. "Vivian," he whispered, "run your hands up and down my back slowly. A man likes to be touched, too, as well as warmed."
Embarrassed where she had not been before, she spread her hands awkwardly and pushed her palms down over his shoulder blades, then back up to clasp his neck. Her hands came together at his nape and pushed upward through his hair. It curled over her fingers, heavy and coarser than hers, like the hair on his body. She could hear it crackle with electricity as it slid beneath her palms. His skin beneath it was very warm.
Against her neck he groaned softly, exhaling his warm breath over her bosom. "God! Your touch, Vivian." He kissed the tender spot below her ear.
Since her action pleased him so much, she reasoned she would be foolish not to do it. Steadily, gently, she continued to stroke him, casting spells of her own to tame the devil who lay between her legs. First, her fingers roved through the hair on the back of his head. Then, shyly, she began to knead the heavy muscles of his naked shoulders.
His body relaxed against her; his weight pressed hard on her breast and in the cradle of her thighs. Despite his heaviness, she slid her hands along his shoulders and down along his spine to the middle of his back.
Suddenly, his breathing evened. She froze, then smiled. He had drifted off to sleep. Stopping her stroking, she sought to wriggle out from under him.
He stirred fretfully and muttered. His hands at her breast and hip clutched her as if she were his favorite toy.
Th
e fire began to die and the room to darken. If she could continue to stroke him until he was deeply asleep, then she could postpone the violation of her body for one more night. If he fell asleep and remained asleep, she might slip away from him and he would never know when she had gone from his side. Where she would go, she had no idea. Perhaps into his room?
Long minutes crept by. His slumber deepened. His weight pressed heavier and heavier upon her torso. Her right hand began to tingle unpleasantly and go numb. She could not feel his skin beneath her fingers, but still she dared not move for fear of waking him. As the fire began to die, she could finally bear his weight no longer. Cautiously, she pushed at his shoulder. He muttered and shifted over to his side. As he moved, she breathed a silent prayer and dragged her upper body and right arm from under his chest.
She was free!
With a soft grunt he settled deeper into the bed. She started up but then fell back covering her mouth to suppress her gasp of dismay. He had wrapped her long braid around his hand and now clutched it in a loose fist. When she tried to unwind it, he muttered and tightened his grip on it.
Exasperated, Vivian sank back against the pillow. Helpless, she turned her face toward her tormentor. By the light of the dying fire, she stared at him. His long eyelashes fanned his cheeks, the harsh lines smoothed out around his mouth. His finely chiseled lips were firmly closed. His long hair fell over his forehead.
As she watched, he turned more onto his stomach and pushed the right fist up beneath his chin. Her braid wrapped around it was beneath his lips as if he were about to kiss it