Winter Bride: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Iris Johansen

  She started to struggle, trying frantically to escape that smothering hand.

  “I tell you it’s okay. Just let me—”

  Her teeth sank deep into his palm.

  He gasped in pain and jerked his hand away. “Dammit, I told you I wasn’t—”

  She punched him in the midsection with her fist.

  She heard a grunt of pain as she rolled out of bed and onto the floor. She sprang to her feet and ran for the door leading to the hall.

  He tackled her before she was halfway across the room, flipped her over on the floor, and straddled her.

  “Listen to me. Just let me explain.”

  Something was vaguely familiar about his deep voice, but she had no time to analyze. Imprisoned between his thighs, she couldn’t knee him, but her hands were still free and his genitals must be in reach.… Her fist struck hard, fast and accurate.

  He groaned and collapsed on top of her, fumbling in the darkness for her wrists. He captured both of them and pinned her to the floor.

  “Let me go or I swear I’ll castrate you,” she hissed.

  “You damn near already did. I’ll be more careful about accepting your next invitation to visit.” The words were spoken in almost a growl, but the voice was as musical as the bass notes of a piano.

  She had heard that voice before. She stopped struggling. “Who are you?”

  “Your loving stepson.” He raised himself to a sitting position astride her. “Jed Corbin. Will you attack me again if I turn your arms loose?”

  “Of course not.” Relief turned her every muscle weak. “Though it was entirely your own fault if I hurt you. When you frightened me, I acted instinctively.”

  “Then your instincts are fairly lethal,” he said dryly. “And Townsend must be a lousy judge of character.”

  She was suddenly acutely conscious of the hardness of his thighs cradling her hips, the scent of soap and after-shave lotion drifting to her in the darkness. “Will you …” Her voice was slightly breathless and she paused to steady it. “… please get off me?”

  “Since you ask so nicely.” He didn’t move and she became aware of a subtle change in his body, a sensual intonation in his voice. “Though I’m tempted to explore the situation further. I’ve never realized how close to the primitive we are in moments of conflict. It’s very … arousing.”

  She felt a flutter of fear and stiffened, ready to attack again.

  “For Lords sake, I’ve no intention of raping you.” A moment later his weight was gone and he was moving across the room toward the nightstand. “I just thought you might be similarly inclined.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You asked me to come.”

  “Not like this. Not in the middle of the night, with no warning or—”

  “I just flew in from Paris and preferred our visit be private. Not that I imagined anyone would kill the fatted calf for me. I’ve never been made to feel particularly welcome here.” He turned on the lamp on the nighstand and was immediately surrounded by a pool of soft light. “However, I didn’t anticipate this kind of reception. I assumed Townsend’s delicate little flower would give me a chance to explain before she swooned in terror.”

  He looked the same as he had on television and yet there were significant differences. He wasn’t as tall as she had thought, barely six feet in height, but every inch was solidly knit. The faded jeans he wore outlined the heavy muscles of his thighs and the tight compactness of his buttocks, and the pushed-up sleeves of his black turtleneck sweat-shirt revealed tanned, powerful forearms. He appeared tougher. The aura he exuded was rougher, more reckless, and his face was more vibrantly alive beneath that cropped cap of silver hair.

  “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” She sat up and got to her knees. “But I’m glad you came, Mr. Corbin.”

  He peered into the shadows where she knelt. “No complaints, no outrage at my rough treatment?”

  “I’m sure you fared worse than I did.”

  “I’m sure too.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I rented a speed boat in Seattle and docked on the other side of the island.” He squinted his eyes. “I can barely see you over there. What the hell are you wearing? Some kind of costume?”

  “Just a robe.” She stood up and tried to tidy her tousled hair. “I’d like to thank you for coming to hear me out. Suppose we get down to—”

  He stiffened. “That’s not just any robe.” He suddenly muttered a curse, his ice-blue eyes glittering. “Come over here into the light where I can see you.”

  She hesitated and then moved slowly across the room toward him.

  He watched her, his eyes narrowed, his stance strangely tense. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  She stopped before him, bracing herself as his gaze traveled over the sleek lines of the long white velvet gown with its golden girdle to the matching gold braid on the flowering sleeves.

  “The Winter Bride.” He threw back his head and laughed uproariously but entirely without mirth. “Good God, I can’t believe it.” He grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the door. “I’ve got to see you together. Is she still in the library?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want—”

  He ignored her protest, pulling her down the hall and down the curved flight of steps.

  “Please, there’s no sense to this,” she said quietly. “You’ve already seen … You know we’re alike.”

  “I have to be sure.” His harsh tone belied the smile baring his teeth. “Trust the old man to manage to get it all.” He threw open the door to the library and switched on the overhead light, his gaze going to the painting over the fireplace. “He always did have the luck of the devil.” He pulled her over to stand in front of the mantel. “Let’s see just how lucky the bastard was.”

  She didn’t have to glance at the painting to know what he was seeing. She knew every brush stroke, every shading of color. The anonymous artist had portrayed a young woman, scarcely more than a child, dressed in an ivory-colored medieval-style gown and ermine-trimmed cloak and standing alone beneath an ice-flocked tree. She was staring at the castle in the background, her eyes wide with fear and anticipation. Ysabel ignored the painting and stared at Jed Corbin. Dear God, he was angry, she realized in bewilderment. She could almost feel the furnace-hot waves of emotion he was exuding.

  “Exquisite,” he said softly, looking at her face. “Same marvelous bone structure, same impossibly long lashes, same dark eyes and hair.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his forefinger. “Lord, even the textures are the same. Your skin feels just as silky as it looks in the picture.”

  Her skin seemed to burn beneath his touch, but it had to be her imagination.

  His gaze moved down her throat to her breasts. “A little more voluptuous than the Bride’s but that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?” Something glinted, then burned in those light blue eyes. Another wave of anger seemed to have been ignited in him.

  “Will you let me go please? You’re hurting my wrist.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to cause you discomfort. All brides should be treated with gentleness and care.” He released her wrist and stepped back. “As I’m sure my father taught you.”

  She absently rubbed her wrist. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not—the hell I’m not.” He drew a deep ragged breath. “He’s won again. I thought I saw a way to get some of my own back, but he’s blocked me again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He not only had his precious painting, he had the real Winter Bride.” His movements were charged with barely contained violence as he strode across the room and threw himself in a chair. “Where the hell did he find you?”

  “San Miguel.”

  “The island off the coast of South America?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a citizen of San Miguel?”

  “My mother was a citizen, my father was American.” She made an impati
ent gesture. “This has no importance. Can’t we talk about why I’ve asked you to come here?”

  “It’s important to me.” He touched his fingertips together in a Confucius-like gesture that should have looked serene; it didn’t. “I find everything about this bizarre relationship between you and my father completely fascinating.” His gaze ran over her. “My Lord, you look like someone from A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Did it titillate him to see you like this?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m sure it did. Seven years … How old are you now?”

  “I can’t see how—twenty-three.”

  His gaze shifted to the painting. “Practically a child bride. You must have looked even more like her then.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How lucky for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long did it take my father to persuade you to join him in wedded bliss after you met?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “How long?”

  “Three days.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “You obviously weren’t as shy and retiring as our Winter Bride.”

  “I really don’t wish to talk about it.” She squared her shoulders. “You’re clearly as obsessed with the painting as your father was, but I don’t have to deal with your idiosyncracies.”

  “Oh, but you do.” His hands dropped to the arms of the chair. “Because you want something from me just as you wanted something from my father. Why else am I here?”

  He was right, she thought wearily. She needed him, and she had learned no one gave something for nothing. She had been prepared to pay, but she had not thought about what price would be demanded. She drew a deep steady breath and tried to wrap her usual cloak of serenity over her inner turbulence. “You’re quite right, of course, Mr. Corbin. I do want something from you.”

  “Jed,” he corrected. “After all, we’re family, aren’t we? Whatever it is you want, I’d judge you want it very badly, indeed.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t admit that to me. It weakens your bargaining position.”

  “You’d probably see through me anyway.” She added simply, “I’m not clever about this sort of thing.”

  His expression changed in some undefinable way. “I’m not as gullible as Townsend. You’re not going to convince me you’re helpless and ineffective.” He grimaced as he glanced down at his lower body. “I have painful evidence to the contrary.”

  “I’m not helpless. I can protect myself.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I’m capable of manipulation. I believe in being as straightforward as possible. It makes life much simpler.”

  “And were you straightforward with my father?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He smiled faintly. “I don’t want to believe you, but I’ve done too many in-depth interviews not to spot a lie when I see one.”

  “Why don’t you want to believe me?” Then she answered the question herself. “You resent me.” Her brow wrinkled as she tried to puzzle it out. “You and your father had no liking for each other so you can’t resent the fact you think I married him for his money.”

  “I would have been delighted if you’d taken him for every stock in his portfolio and sent him reeling to skid row.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. What was between me and my father was complicated. It took me years to understand it.”

  “But I had nothing to do with the argument between you. Why do you—”

  “Don’t look for reason. My reaction is purely emotional.” As she continued to stare at him he said harshly, “Stop looking at me so mournfully with those big black eyes. It bothers me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to understand.”

  His lips tightened. “It’s very simple. You gave him what he wanted most—you gave him his dream.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “You’re right, I do resent you.”

  He was leaving, she realized in panic. “Where are you going?”

  “I have to digest this.” His gaze went to the painting. “I wasn’t expecting this particular development when I came back here.”

  “But we have to talk. I need—”

  “Not now. It wouldn’t be wise. I’m so charged, I feel as if I’m about to detonate.”

  “Then when?”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow night.”

  “Where are you going? Back to the mainland?”

  “There’s a cottage on the other side of the island where I used to live after my father and I found we couldn’t stand the sight of each other.” His lips twisted. “I rather thought he’d have burned it like an effigy, but I saw it when I docked. Is it occupied?”

  “I don’t think so. I asked Arnold about it once, but he wouldn’t talk about it. You could stay here. I could have Betty make up a room.”

  He paused. “Is that old harridan still here?”

  “Yes, Arnold left her a legacy and instructions that she stay on here after his death.”

  “When she used to stalk around the castle, she reminded me of the giant’s wife in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’ ” He smiled crookedly. “I’m almost tempted to stay just to see her look of outrage when she catches me in these hallowed halls.” He opened the door. “But, as I said, I prefer no one knows I’m here.”

  “But you’ll be back. You promise?”

  “Oh, I’ll be back. I have a full measure of the newsman’s usual insatiable curiosity. I couldn’t walk out without all my questions answered.”

  “But you are walking out,” she pointed out. “Why don’t you stay and let me tell you what—”

  “Sorry.” His lips tightened. “I’m afraid you won’t find me as pliant to your demands as my father.”

  “Pliant?” She gazed at him in bewilderment. “I was the one who had to be compliant.”

  Again his anger blasted at her from across the room. “And I’m sure you did it very well.”

  The door closed behind him before she could reply.

  Pliant. She closed her eyes as memories flooded back to her of that forced compliance. No, she wouldn’t think of Arnold. The long ordeal was over, and now she could make a new life for herself.

  Her lids flicked open and she moved purposefully toward the door. Jed Corbin’s arrival had brought problems she hadn’t expected, but she would just have to make adjustments and find a way to convince him to do what had to be done. She was good at making adjustments, she thought bitterly. She had certainly had enough practice in the art.

  The cottage was still there, nestling on the cliff like a disreputable sea gull after the peacock splendor of the castle.

  He didn’t need to break in; the door was unlocked and swung open to reveal dirt, mildew, and cockroaches scurrying across the moonlit floor in front of him. He played the beam of his flashlight around the small room.

  Fourteen years. If the cottage had ever had another occupant, it wasn’t evident at first glance. Even his well-thumbed copy of War and Peace was still on the bookshelf he’d fashioned on the far wall. Not surprising. Arnold had always hated the primitive cabin and ignored it—and Jed—whenever possible. The place had never had electricity, but there used to be an oil lamp on a chest.

  After he had lit the lamp, he surveyed the room. Though badly in need of cleaning, airing, and probably debugging, it was more habitable than many of the places in the war-torn hot spots he’d slept in since he had left the island.

  But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

  He had told Ysabel the truth when he had left the castle. Lord, left wasn’t the word. He had almost run away from the library and still felt as if he were about to explode. Seeing her had triggered an emotional overload.

  His response had been so violent and out of proportion, he’d had to grab time to
analyze and gain control. So analyze, dammit, he told himself. He wasn’t a wild kid ruled by his passions any longer.

  Yet he felt like that boy, angry and cheated and jealous. The first two emotions he could understand, but the jealousy?

  It was the painting, he assured himself. She was right; it appeared he still retained his attachment for the painting. He had thought he had smothered his obsession along with the more bitter memories of the castle. All right, he still wanted the painting, but he wasn’t his father and had no intention of transferring that passion from the child in the painting to her living likeness.

  He deliberately pulled up the memory of Ysabel as she had stood before him in the study. Tiny, fragile, her gaze wondering and yet serene, an air of patience and resignation surrounding her.

  Yet she had been neither patient nor resigned when they had been struggling in the darkness. He had been conscious of a strength and determination that had caught him off guard. Her face might be identical to that of the Winter Bride, but she was no frightened child.

  And when he had held her struggling, panting in the darkness, he had felt himself harden.

  Lust. A primitive reaction to conquest and submission as he had told her. How could it be anything more when at that point he hadn’t even seen her face?

  Yet the reaction hadn’t disappeared. As he had watched her standing by the mantel he had been swept by the same passion he had experienced when she had lain helpless between his thighs in the bedroom.

  Emotions were seldom black and white, anger could have spilled over and formed a—

  No, he wouldn’t lie to himself. What he had felt had been lust, pure and simple. If lust was ever either pure or simple, he thought cynically. Whatever he had felt, he had to get it under control before he saw her again.

  He moved quickly across the cottage to the closet where he had previously kept a broom and cleaning supplies. He needed an outlet for the emotion storming through him. He would clean and scrub the cottage until it was habitable and he was exhausted enough to sleep.

  And he would not think about either the Winter Bride or Ysabel.