by Unconquered
“Yes!” he said, and his body took control of hers, thrusting deeply, quickly, until she surrendered with a little cry and slid rapidly away into a shining, whirling world.
He had meant to hold back at her first climax, meant to double the delight for her, but it was too much for even such a skilled lover as Jared Dunham. The look on her face, a look of disbelief and wonderment followed by total joy, destroyed his control, and his warm seed flooded her. “Oh, wildcat!” he groaned.
His recovery was far quicker than hers, and as he rolled away from her she lay half-conscious, barely breathing, her lovely body still vibrating. Plumping the big goose-down pillows, he moved himself into a sitting position, drew her into the protective circle of his arms, and pulled the bedclothes over them, noticing as he did the blood on her ivory thighs. Oh wildcat, he thought, I’ve taken your innocence, and your girlhood is really gone. You must be a woman, now, and I wonder if you’ll ever forgive me. I tried to be gentle, for, God help me, I love you.
She stirred against him, and her sea-green eyes slowly opened. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then she reached up and caressed his cheek. He shuddered slightly, and she said softly, “Do I really do that to you?” He nodded, and although her face remained unchanged, a tiny look of triumph flickered in her eyes. “Did I please you, Jared?”
“I wasn’t aware you wanted to, Miranda.”
“Not until the end,” she admitted candidly. “Not until I began to see how wonderful it could be, and then I wanted it to be wonderful for you, too! Oh, Jared!”
“You pleased me, Miranda. You pleased me very much, but it’s only the beginning. There is more … much more, my love.”
“Show me!”
He laughed. “I’m afraid, madam, that you’ll have to give me a few moments to recover. Besides,” and he became serious, “you’re but newly opened, my darling, and may yet be tender.”
She had already forgotten the pain of her deflowering. Hot passion racing through her veins, she was eager for more love. Pulling back the bedclothes, she playfully reached for his manhood, but suddenly a look of horror crossed her face. “Jared! You’re bleeding!”
He swallowed his laughter, silently cursing her mother again, and said, “No, sweetheart, I am not bleeding. It was you, but it won’t happen again. It was only the proof of your virginity.”
She looked down at her thighs, blushed furiously, and said, “Oh, I forgot!” and then: “Dammit, Jared, I am weary of all this innocence! What else don’t I know? Are all girls my age such ninnies on their wedding nights?”
“You are more innocent than some women your age, Miranda, but as your husband my vanity is better served by it than by too great a knowledge. From now on you may ask me anything that puzzles you and I will do my best to teach you all I know, my darling.” He kissed the tip of her nose, and was flattered when she returned his kiss, her ripe mouth pressing against his mouth, tasting him, nibbling at the corners of his lips. He let her have her way, thinking as he lay back what a daughter of Eve she really was.
Her newly awakened ardor increased until he could no longer ignore it, and he quickly shifted so that she found herself beneath him. He teasingly nuzzled at her breasts, and was surprised when she drew his head down, murmuring, “Please.” He willingly obliged her, suckling on the sweet fruits until she moaned and writhed against him, pulling him atop her, spreading her slim legs in invitation.
“Oh, wildcat,” he murmured, touched by her eagerness, caressing her tenderly in an effort to take the edge off her highly excited state.
“Take me, Jared,” she said urgently. “Oh God, I burn!”
She was not to be denied. Amazed by her passion, he drove deep into her eager body, reveling in the softness of her. He gloried in her tight sheath, which enclosed his pulsing shaft in a passionate embrace. Then through the fires of his lust he heard her cry out. Her body arched and, for a moment, their eyes met and he saw the dawning of knowledge in those sea-green depths before she fainted with the force of her orgasm.
Passionlessly he released his seed, and withdrew from her. He was stunned, amazed by the woman who lay so motionless, barely breathing, caught in the throes of la petite morte. An hour ago she had been a trembling virgin, and now she lay unconscious as a result of intense desire. A desire that she might not truly understand yet.
Again he took her in his arms, holding her close, warming her fragile body with his own. She was so young, so new to passion, but when she woke it would be in the tender safety of his love.
She moaned softly, and he brushed a tangle of hair back from her forehead. The sea-green eyes opened, and as the memory of her recent passion returned she flushed pink. Jared laughed softly, reassuring her, “Miranda, my sweet and passionate little wife, I fall at your feet in rapt admiration.”
“Don’t mock me,” she said shyly, hiding her burning face in his chest.
“I’m not, love.”
“What happened to me?”
“La petite morte.”
“The little death? Yes, it was like dying. It did not happen the first time.”
“It doesn’t always happen, my love. You were overwrought with desire. I am quite impressed with you.”
“You are laughing at me!”
“No, no,” he hastened to reassure her. “I am simply astounded by your reaction tonight.”
“Then it was wrong?”
“No, Miranda, my love, it was very right.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I want you to go to sleep now. When you awake we will have a late supper, and afterward, perhaps we shall work on refining your marvelous natural talent.”
“I think you are very wicked,” she said softly.
“I think you are very delicious,” he returned, laying her back against the pillows and tucking the bedclothes around her.
She fell asleep almost immediately, as he had known she would. He lay next to her, and shortly joined her.
There was no late supper for them, for Miranda slept through the night, and, to Jared’s surprise, so did he. He awoke when the first gray light of dawn lit the room. He lay quietly for a moment, then realized that she was gone. His ear caught the sound of activity in her dressing room. He stretched lazily, rose from the bed, and padded on bare feet into his own dressing room.
“Good morning, wife,” he called cheerily as he poured water from the porcelain pitcher into the matching basin.
“G-good morning.”
“Damn! This water’s cold! Miranda …” He stepped into the connecting door.
“Don’t come in here!” she cried out. “I am not dressed!”
He yanked the door open, and strode through. She clutched a small linen towel to her body, and he yanked it away. “There will be no false modesty between us, madam! Your body is exquisite, and I take great pleasure in it. You are my wife!”
She said nothing, but her eyes widened and she stared at his midsection. He looked down at his swollen manhood and swore softly. “Damnation, wildcat, you certainly have a powerful effect on me.”
“Don’t touch me!”
“Why ever not, wife?”
“It’s daylight!”
“Indeed it is!” He took a step toward her, and with a shriek she ran from the dressing room. With a shrug he picked up her half-filled pitcher of warm water and, whistling, carried it back into his dressing room, splashing the contents into his basin. He washed himself, then strolled with feigned casualness back into the bedroom where she was frantically trying to dress.
He slipped up behind her, put an iron arm about her, and with mischievous fingers pulled open her blouse and fondled her left breast.
“Ohh!”
The blouse came off, as did her breeches and lacy little drawers. He turned her around to face him, and she beat on his chest.
“You are a monster, sir! A beast! An animal!”
“I am a man, madam! Your husband! I wish to make love to you, and by God I shall!”
His mouth came savagely down on hers, forcing her lips a
part, his tongue seductively caressing, forcing the honeyed fire into her veins. She pounded against him, but he ignored her as if she were an insect and forced her back onto the bed. His body lay the full length of hers, and she was pinioned between his strong arms.
This time his mouth grew soft and passionate, coaxing the sweetness from her until she moaned. His hands roamed freely, sliding beneath her, down her long back, cupping her buttocks, drawing her against him in an embrace so torrid she actually felt her body was being scorched by his.
She tore her head from his, gasping for breath, and while she was distracted he moved low, his lips teasing her shrinking belly, his tongue flicking out suddenly to taunt the inside of her thighs.
“Jared! Jared!” she whispered, pulling at his thick, dark hair.
He shuddered. “All right, my love,” he said reluctantly, “but damn, you’re so lovely there. One day I won’t heed your pleas, and then you’ll want it as badly as I do!” He pulled himself up and, straddling her quickly, took her with a restraint and tenderness that amazed even him. “Come with me, my love,” he crooned, moving smoothly, feeling the storm building within her. At the moment she crowned the tip of his pulsing shaft with her love juices, he released his own boiling tribute.
Miranda felt drained, yet full; battered, yet cherished; weak, yet strong. A great calm filled her, and she slid her arms around him. “You’re still a beast,” she murmured weakly in his ear.
He chuckled in reply, “I’ve loved you well, madam, in full daylight, and the house still stands.”
“Villain!” she hissed, squirming away from him. “Have you no shame?”
“None, wildcat! None at all!” He rolled over and looked down at her. “I’m hungry,” he said.
“What, sir! You are insatiable!”
“For breakfast, my love, though I regret to disappoint you.”
“Ohh!” she turned pink.
“I’ll be happy to oblige you again afterward,” he promised, climbing out of bed, chuckling at her look of outrage. “I’ll have Cook send you a tray, for you’ll need all the rest you can get, Miranda. I intend making the most of our time alone before your Mama and sister return.”
She watched him disappear back into his dressing room. Laying amid the tumbled bedding, she felt strangely relaxed. He was a rogue, she thought, but then—and a small smile lifted the corners of her kiss-bruised mouth—she was finding she had a weakness for rogues. Not that she’d admit that to him—at least not yet!
Chapter 5
EACH DAY OF THEIR HONEYMOON WAS BETTER THAN THE PREVIOUS one had been. Miranda, at first as skittish as a young filly, began to gentle somewhat as she became used to Jared’s presence at Wyndsong, in their bedroom, and in her life. He awoke Christmas Day to find her propped on one elbow studying him in the half-light of early winter morning. He watched her through slitted eyes, feigning sleep. She was lovely in her pale-blue silk nightgown with its long sleeves and modestly buttoned high neckline.
Her pale-gold hair hung loose after last night’s sweet combat between them, although she had come to bed with it plaited into two long neat braids. He didn’t know what it was about the sight of those braids that roused him so thoroughly, but they did. He had undone them, letting her beautiful thick silvery hair pour through his fingers, becoming excited by the soft, scented tresses, and she had laughed at him. He had taken her then and there, and she had continued to laugh into his face, a soft and seductive woman’s laughter, until she had finally yielded her body. He felt that she had yielded him nothing else this time. Miranda was growing up.
He continued lying quietly, and she reached out a slim hand to touch his face gently. In her sea-green eyes he saw puzzlement yet tenderness, and he thought, with amazement, She’s falling in love with me! Women who clung had always bored him, but he wanted this one to cling a little. He didn’t want her helpless, but he did want all of her. Reaching up, he caressed her face in return.
“Ohh!” She colored guiltily. “How long have you been awake?”
“Just now,” he lied. “Happy Christmas, Miranda.”
“Happy Christmas to you, sir.” She scrambled from bed, and ran into her dressing room to reappear a moment later with a gaily wrapped package. “For you, Jared!”
He sat up and accepted the gift. Unwrapping it, he found a beautiful buff-colored satin vest, embroidered with dainty sprigs of gold flowers with green leaves. The buttons were polished green malachite. There were also several pairs of well-knitted heavy wool stockings. He knew from the anxious look on her face that she had made both the vest and the stockings. Carefully he lifted the vest from its nest of wrapping and examined it. It was amazingly well done, and he was deeply touched.
“Why, madam, how marvelous,” he said. “I commend your needlework. I shall certainly take this excellent garment to London next spring, and be the envy of every gentleman at White’s.”
“You really like it?” Dear Lord! She sounded like a ninny! “I trust the socks also meet with your approval, sir,” she finished severely.
“Most assuredly, madam. I am flattered that you took the trouble to make me these gifts.” He reached up and drew her down to him. “Give me a Christmas kiss, my love.”
She brushed his mouth sweetly with her own, then said, “Have you nothing for me, sir?”
He chuckled. “Miranda, Miranda! Just when I believe you’re growing up, you become a child again.” She looked piqued, and he continued, “Yes, you greedy little puss, I have something for you. Go into my dressing room, and you’ll find two boxes in the bottom drawer of my chest-on-chest. Bring them here so I may present them to you properly.”
She was back in a moment with the boxes, which she handed to him. One was large, and the other small. He put them before him on the bed, and she studied them. The larger box bore the name of a Paris shop on it, the smaller the label of a London jeweler.
“Well, Miranda, which one first?” he teased.
“The smaller is bound to be more valuable,” she teased back, and he laughed as he handed it to her.
“Oh!” she breathed delightedly as she opened the box. Within the white satin nested a large cameo brooch, showing creamy-colored head and shoulders of a Grecian maiden with upswept and beribboned curls on a coral background. The maiden wore about her own neck an exquisite tiny gold chain with a single perfect diamond. It was a very unusual piece, and Miranda knew it must have cost him a pretty penny. She lifted it from its box and sighed with pleasure. “It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever owned,” she said, pinning it to her nightgown.
“I saw it last year in London, and sent for it right after we met. The jeweler was told to make me another, if he’d sold the original. I wasn’t at all sure it would be here in time for Christmas, but the fates must have heard my pleas. Open the other, my dear.”
“I have not thanked you yet, sir.”
“Words are not necessary, Miranda. I see the thanks in your beautiful eyes. Open the box from Madame Denise’s.”
Again her pretty mouth made an O of delight, as she excitedly lifted the garment from its box. “Pray, sir, tell me if you saw this in Paris last time you were there?” She stood up and held the exquisite lime-green silk and lace Circassian wrapper against her slender form.
His green eyes were smoky with amusement. “I have bought similar garments before from Madame Denise’s. For Bess and Charity, of course,” he added mischievously, and knew by the elegant lift of her eyebrow that she did not believe him.
“I do believe Grandmother Van Steen is right about you, Jared. You are a rogue!”
The new year of 1812 came, and with it strong winter storms. A coastal packet from New York brought a letter from Torwyck saying that Dorothea and Amanda were snowbound, and would not even attempt returning before spring when both the river and the Long Island Sound would be free of ice.
The world about them was white and quiet, some days brightened by sunshine and skies so blue that one could imagine it was summer. Other days w
ere windswept and gray. But there was a hint of spring in the air. The forest stood black and still, except for the evergreen pines, moaning and whispering their loneliness around Long Pond at the west end of the island. The salt marshes were frozen over on dark February mornings with a skim of ice, and the purity of the meadows broken only by occasional paw prints. On the four freshwater ponds the Canadian geese, the swans, and wild ducks—mallards, canvasbacks, buffleheads, and redheads—wintered in relative peace. In the manor barns the horses and cattle lived dull lives, dreaming of warm summer meadows, the chill monotony broken only by daily feedings and the friendly company of several barn cats. Even the barnyard fowl kept pretty much indoors.
At first Miranda had felt strange being cut off from her family. She had never been away from them in her entire life, and now even Wyndsong was beginning to seem different, too. She had found it difficult at first to believe that it was she, and not Mama, who was mistress here. She had reconciled herself to Jared’s place as lord of the manor, but her own place was harder to accept. With his gentle guidance, however, she began to take up the reins of authority that were hers as chatelaine.
March came, and with it the thaw. They were, it seemed, an island of mud in a bright blue sea. Suddenly, toward the end of the month, a small flock of robins appeared, the hills were polka-dotted with yellow daffodils, and the land began to green once more. Spring had come to Wyndsong. From the shelter of their barns the livestock joyfully emerged. The colts and calves were bewildered at first, but soon gamboled across the meadows beneath the benign gaze of their proud parents.
Miranda celebrated her eighteenth birthday on April 7, 1812. Her mother and sister had arrived home late the day before on the Wyndsong yacht, Sprite. The twins had celebrated all their birthdays together, even the year Amanda had had the measles, and the one when Miranda was covered in chicken pox. Then it had been their father who sat at the head of the table, their mother at the foot, the twins on either side. Tonight Jared sat at the table’s head, and Miranda at its foot, wearing her birthday present from her husband, an emerald necklace.