by Kay Hooper
She vaguely wondered what her own face looked like to bring such anxiety into his. “I shouldn’t have come in here without asking,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “You’re welcome anywhere in this house, you know that. Sara, what’s wrong?”
She rose from the chair slowly, unable to stop staring at him. “Wrong? Nothing. I didn’t want to bother you while you and the colonel were working, so I came in here.”
“Sara—”
“I love the painting.”
After a moment he said, “I’m glad.”
She drew a deep breath, then stepped forward suddenly and slipped her arms around his waist. Instantly his arms closed around her, and she hid her face against his neck and breathed in the clean, faintly musky scent of his skin.
“Sara?”
“I want to belong to you,” she whispered.
His arms tightened almost convulsively, his voice abruptly harsh with strain. “Sara, if we become lovers, I’ll never be able to let you go.”
She lifted her head, looking up at him gravely. “Yes, you would. If I asked to go, you’d let me. But I won’t ask, Andres. I won’t ask.”
He caught his breath. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Her smile was slow. “I love you.”
“Mi corazón …” His head bent, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was unutterably tender. His arms drew her closer, one hand sliding up her back and beneath the heavy weight of her silky hair, while the other hand slipped down to her hips.
Tenderness heated, exploded into driven passion. His mouth slanted across hers, his tongue possessing her with a shocking intimacy; his big body shuddered hard, shaken by a wave of need. Sara felt her own body shiver violently, felt the hunger inside her surge with the breathless force of a tidal wave. She wasn’t close enough to him, couldn’t get close enough; she was frantic with the need to become a part of him.
She could feel the physical power of him; feel the hard muscles of a lifetime’s brutal, daily struggle for survival; and was dimly surprised that there was no fear in her of his vital force. Instead she was seduced by his unthinking power, moved unbearably by the certain knowledge that he reined that potent strength for her.
A soft, primitive sound tangled in the back of her throat when his lips finally left hers, and she forced herself to release him long enough to cope with the buttons of his shirt. He was exploring the soft flesh of her neck, and she threw her head back, eyes half closed, her trembling fingers unfastening buttons with blind knowledge. She felt rather than saw him shrug the shirt off, and his powerful bronze chest drew her hands like a magnet.
The strength of him … It had made her wary, had intrigued and compelled her, had once frightened her. Now his strength was a tactile delight, igniting her senses, bringing her entire body vividly alive. The corded power of his arms held her, muscles rippling beneath bronze flesh. The mat of black hair on his broad chest was sensuously abrasive, and—
Scars. More than twenty years of war and hardship had left their marks on his soldier’s body. Some were old, some more recent, but all were marks of terrible suffering.
Sara felt a sob catch in her throat, and she half pushed him away, her hands exploring, her eyes seeing for the first time. She had never seen his bare torso. “You didn’t tell me,” she whispered, hurting with the pain of those old wounds. “Oh, Andres—”
“Shhhh.” He held her face, kissed her gently. “Old hurts, my love. From long ago. They don’t matter now.”
They mattered to Sara, mattered because his life had held such pain. Yet he hadn’t lost his dream, not completely, hadn’t lost the ability to love. Unaware of her tears, she pressed her lips to a puckered bullet scar on his shoulder and then the thin white line of an old knife wound high on his rib cage. And there were others she could feel, marks on his back that she knew, with cold instinct, were the scars of long-ago beatings. The revolutionary army he had been yanked into as a teenager had been a brutal one, led by cruel men.
Oh, God, the pain!
“Don’t,” he said huskily, shaken, drawing her close and holding her for that moment with tender comfort. “Don’t weep for me, Sara.”
She realized then that no one ever had wept for Andres, and it almost broke her heart.
“Love me,” she whispered, fierce, driven. Her body molded itself to his, yielding, seeking. She met his lips with burning need, barely tasting the salt of her own tears. She wanted to give and give, to overwhelm him with her love until even the memory of pain was gone. She helped him draw the tank top over her head, heard the rasping sound he made when she pressed her naked breasts to his chest.
For just that instant, with Andres caught between deep tenderness and violent need, she was the stronger one. And she felt the pulse of her own strength, the certainty, the primitive heartbeat of ancient emotion. He was hers, he had always been hers, and she was his; nothing in the world would ever be as real as that.
SIX
SARA WASN’T AWARE of clothing falling away, only of the intimate shock of flesh meeting, burning and greedy. Their bodies strained to be closer, hard and demanding. Sara didn’t know if he carried her to the bed or if she floated, didn’t know which of them threw back the covers. It didn’t matter.
She hadn’t known what to expect of Andres as a lover. She knew the tenderness of his love and had glimpsed the strength of his passion, but nothing had prepared her for the astonishing depth of his ability to give of himself. He hid nothing, held back nothing. She had never felt so loved in her life.
He murmured endearments in English and Spanish as he loved her, his caresses achingly sensitive. In the soft light of the bedside lamp, he looked at her as if something of inestimable beauty and wonder had been given to him. He couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop touching heated, quivering flesh.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured in a raspy voice, the warmth of his breath teasing even as his tone compelled. His lips lightly brushed a nipple hardened with wanting him, and his big hands slowly slid up her narrow waist until the swelling fullness of her breasts was captured.
Sara caught her breath, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I—I know what you do to me,” she whispered, hardly recognizing her own voice.
His mouth brushed her straining flesh again and again, and his voice was rough, wondering. “From the first moment I saw you,” he said, “I knew I was lost, lost somewhere in your lovely green eyes. I couldn’t think, couldn’t see anything but you. I was shaking inside, terrified some other man had found you before me and won your heart.”
Andres’s head lifted suddenly, and his eyes glittered with dark fire, with something implacable. “I would have done anything to win your love,” he said fiercely. “Anything—” His voice caught, cracked. “Anything except hurt you or frighten you. I never wanted to do that, Sara.”
“I know.” She could barely get the words out through the tightness of her throat. “I know, Andres. It’s all right now. Everything’s all right now.”
He groaned suddenly and buried his face between her breasts. “You make me drunk,” he said tautly. “Make me crazy. Dios, Sara. I love you!”
Sara felt it then, felt the full force of his passion, his desire for her. It had been growing, building beneath the slow, gentle caresses, but now it swept over them both. His gentleness became driven hunger, urgent need. His big body was hard, burning, shaking with the force of his passion.
But this time, unlike that night in the garden, Sara didn’t feel battered or bewildered by the sheer power of his desire. This time she felt a stunning force of her own rise within her, matching his. Fearless, exultant, she met need with need.
She felt his mouth at her breast, felt the swirling, maddening pleasure of his tongue. She felt the sure, insistent touch of his hand, felt her body yield as her legs parted for him. A moan caught in her throat and escaped raggedly when he found the warmth of her. The sensations were incredible, stealing her breat
h, shaking her body and soul.
Andres fought to master his body, to control the violence of his need, and it was the hardest thing he’d ever attempted in his life. She was so beautiful, so utterly responsive, and he ached because of needing her for so long. He heard a sound escape from somewhere deep inside him, wild with longing, and knew that never, as long as he lived, would his need of her lessen.
“Sara …”
The soft sounds she made ran through him like fire, and he could feel the last threads of his control snapping. Her slender body warm and yearning, ready for him.
“Andres, please!” Her voice was nearly gone, the faint, husky sound of limits reached, passed.
He widened her thighs gently and slipped between them, bracing himself above her. Sara looked up at him, dazed, aching; her hands found his shoulders, fingers compulsively probing smooth bronze skin and hard muscles.
“I love you,” he said, his voice rough. “Sara …”
She felt a touch against her aching flesh, a pressure, then some instinct drove her to move suddenly, arching upward to meet him; she possessed even as he did. A cry of surprise caught in her throat, and her eyes widened with shock and pleasure. She thought his hot, dark eyes flickered briefly, flared with a new emotion, but there was no time to think about that.
Her supple limbs held him, her body sheathing his with tight heat, her passion meeting his wildly. She caught his rhythm, matched it in feverish response. She was driven, taking and giving, a shattering tension coiling until there was nothing but the primitive need to meld with him, to become a part of him until they were one.
The breathless, rushing tension snared them, tore at them, lifted them higher and higher until there was nothing to do but fall or fly, and they soared together in a sweeping ascent that was violent and tender and devastating.
Sara was slow in returning from that wondrous flight. Too utterly limp and drained to move, she was only vaguely aware that Andres had eased over beside her. But she felt his arms drawing her close, felt shaking hands stroke her hair, her body, as if he couldn’t stop touching her. She found the strength somewhere to cuddle closer to the hard heat of his body, murmuring a wordless contentment.
She drifted, her entire body still tingling, pulsing slowly in a lazy heartbeat of pleasure. And if it occurred to her that she had burned all her bridges except the one between her and Andres, the thought didn’t trouble her.
She didn’t want to go back.
Colonel Durant sipped his wine and looked up from contemplating his half-finished dinner as Maria came into the room.
A little worried, the housekeeper said, “He went to find her hours ago, Colonel. Do you think …” Maria glanced toward the dining room door, speculation written large on her pleasant face. “Dinner is cold,” she said almost absently. “They should eat.”
“I imagine they will. When it occurs to them.” Durant smiled. “Leave the food in a warm oven, Maria. If they wish to eat, they will.”
The housekeeper was smiling, her button-like eyes bright. “It is good for them to reach the bedroom at last,” she said happily. “I worried about them.”
Durant didn’t comment, but after Maria had returned to her kitchen, he sat brooding. He agreed with Maria; it was good that Andres and Sara had apparently taken the logical and vital next step in their relationship. It was good for both of them, he thought. He could almost literally feel an easing of tension in the house.
Still … He knew Andres well. And he knew his friend was deeply troubled by the uncertainty of the life he could offer the woman he loved here on Kadeira. Andres was well and truly caught, needing Sara desperately and yet also needing to know she would always be safe. And the latter was little short of impossible. Given time to think it through, Durant had the uneasy suspicion that Andres would, in the end, try to send her away.
Durant could understand, and he wondered what Sara’s reaction would be. Did she know, he wondered, what she really meant to Andres? Did she comprehend what the depth of her own commitment would have to be? And if she did know and understand, was she willing to face the future at Andres’s side? Could she persuade the man who loved her beyond all else to allow her that place in his life despite the dangers?
The colonel muttered a curse and drained his glass, barely tasting the wine. He wondered grimly if Andres had told her what they meant to do in the morning. Somehow he doubted it. But if Sara loved Andres as she said she did, the morning would bring a test of her ability to love in the face of danger.
Durant hoped she passed the test. For all their sakes.
Faint, years-old scars of a whip marked his back.
Sara had meant to slide from the bed and go downstairs in search of food, having been awakened by the complaints of her empty stomach. But she went still the moment she sat up, staring down at that wide, strong bronze back. He was lying on his stomach beside her, asleep, the covers having fallen to his hips when she sat up. And thin white lines crisscrossed from shoulders to waist, the marks of a cruel beating.
She reached out to trace the scars with soft fingers, her throat aching. Her heart aching. So much pain …
“It was long ago,” he said gently, raising up on one elbow to gaze at her with glowing eyes.
Sara eased back down onto her pillow, looking at him somberly. He slept like a cat, she thought. Or like a soldier. She wondered how many years it had been since he had been able to relax that constant guarded awareness. “What happened?” she asked.
Andres brushed a strand of her flaming hair away from her face, then stroked her cheek as if he couldn’t stop touching her. “I was taken by the revolutionary army when I was fourteen,” he murmured. “I had no choice. Kadeira’s leader at that time had lasted longer in power than any other. Years. He was cruel; the rebellion against him was gaining strength. But the revolutionary leaders were little better than he was. They took children for their army, stole them from their homes in the dead of night.”
“Is that how they got you?”
“Yes. My father had been killed before I was born—in an earlier revolution. My mother was killed a year after they took me, dying in a vicious raid on the town. I was one of the raiders.”
Sara caught her breath. “Andres!”
His smiled twisted and his eyes went distant.
“I didn’t even know what we were doing. Few of us did. We had learned to do as we were told. I suppose the generals intended to kill only the government soldiers patrolling the town, but—It was a tragedy, Sara. So many were killed. There were looting and burning, terrible atrocities. By the time the government gathered its forces and drove us into the hills, there wasn’t much left. The people could no longer stomach their bright revolution.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
He sighed. “The so-called freedom fighters were weary too. Within a week the revolutionary army had been cut in half by desertions. Those of us who were left were mostly children with nowhere to go, our homes destroyed, families gone or having disowned us. Kadeira’s leader took note, organized his army to round us up and capture us.”
Sara was afraid to ask another question.
Tonelessly Andres said, “He meant to discourage future uprisings. We were thrown into his prison, and every day a dozen were taken to the center of town. Public whippings. Some of them fatal. The prisoners were left at the whipping posts from dawn until sunset, then were cut down. If they survived, they were free to rebuild their lives.”
“You were just a boy!” Sara burst out. “How could—”
“I had carried a gun for a year, Sara,” he said softly. “I wasn’t a child any longer. I had fought like a man. I was punished like a man.”
“No. Like—like an animal.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t right.”
“There wasn’t a right or a wrong then, my love. There was just the way things were.”
After a moment Sara asked, “What did you do?”
“I survived.” His faint smile attempted to so
ften the bleak words. “I found work at the docks. That was when I met John Chantry.”
“The American mercenary? You’ve mentioned him before.”
Andres nodded. “He changed my life. There were a number of mercenaries in the government’s army; he was one. I don’t know, to this day, what he saw in me, why he spent time with me.” Andres laughed softly. “I was half wild, uneducated, filled with hate. But he fascinated me, because he was so much more than a soldier. He was quiet, thoughtful, intelligent. He read books and studied people, and no matter what happened, he never lost the belief that the world could be a good place.”
“He taught you English?”
“Yes. And taught me to read; I had spent little time in school and could barely write my name when we met. He found books, borrowed or bought them from other soldiers and from the ships that occasionally came to Kadeira. He taught me to respect words and learning. And when I spoke bitterly of the government and of the unlikelihood of change, he was the one who told me that in every revolution there was one man with a vision. If the vision was good and strong, he said, the revolution would be successful. I never forgot that.”
“Did he just leave one day?”
Andres shook his head slightly. “No. It was several years before revolution broke out again. The government was bleeding Kadeira dry; the people were being crushed under a merciless regime. I joined then, willingly. I wanted to fight the wrongness of it. John was making plans to leave; his contract had expired and he wasn’t willing to fight any longer. He said he was getting old, that he wanted to go home.
“He never got the chance. In our first battle against government troops, I—I made something of a name for myself. Word reached the government, of course. The president was furious, and since he couldn’t take his fury out on me, he took it out on John. Had him executed for collusion with enemies of the state. By the time I heard, it was all over.”
Sara went into his arms silently, aching inside. What gave a man such strength? How had he kept going, year after year, with so much pain and loss, so much tragedy? And then she looked past his shoulder at the painting on the wall and she knew. Because he had a vision.