The Legend Of Love

by Nan Ryan

  Her lovely face was only inches from his own, her soft lips slightly parted. The intoxicating scent of her clean hair filled his senses. The back of his hand was resting against her rounded breast with only the seductive satin of her chemise between. He wondered what she would do if he turned his hand over and touched her.

  Really touched her.

  As he languidly stitched a white cross to the blue bodice of the ivory-skinned southern beauty, his thoughts turned from death to life. More specifically, to one of life’s greatest joys.

  Lovemaking.

  4

  SWEET DESIRE BEGAN ITS slow, sure burn through his body. The blood flowing through his veins started to heat pleasantly. His heart expanded, kicked forcefully against his chest. The hard muscles in his flat abdomen tightened. His breathing deepened, became more rapid.

  She was young and pretty and he had been too long without a woman. He wanted her. It was as elemental as that.

  So little time. He would have to work fast. But not too fast, or she’d never consent.

  “There. Just about done,” he said, and looked up. When her eyes met his, he held her gaze for a lingering second, then purposely directed her attention to the needle in his hand. A needle still connected by thread to the bodice of her dress. He gave the thread a mild jerk. He wanted her to recall that when she had finished sewing the cross on his tunic, she had leaned down and bitten the thread in two.

  His silent statement was quite clear. Elizabeth did remember and became immediately edgy. Her gaze flew back up to his eyes and she murmured, “No … I …”

  He just smiled at her. Slowly he lowered his dark head. Her heart galloping, Elizabeth watched, wide-eyed, as his bearded face moved down to her left breast. When his face was no more than a fraction of an inch from her, she saw his wide mouth slowly open and she trembled.

  His sharp white teeth gleamed in the moonlight. He bit the thread swiftly in two and she was free. But for another heartbeat, his bearded face remained where it was and gently nuzzled. Elizabeth’s breath left her body in an astonished rush.

  He raised his dark head, held out the needle, and smiled at her. She started to speak; he stopped her before she could issue the command that he return at once to his side of the cell.

  “Miss,” he asked gently, “will you allow me to sit here beside you for a few minutes?”

  “Whatever for?” was her shaky reply.

  “Even Yankees,” he said, easing himself over to sit flat down on her right side, “are human beings. I have a name and I—”

  “I told you once, Spy,”—she sensed sure danger—“I don’t care to know who you are.”

  “But I care who you are.” His voice was velvet in the still, warm night. “Won’t you please tell me your name so I—”

  “No. I will not. And … and must you sit so close?” She scooted over several inches.

  Undaunted, he stretched his long legs out before him, placed his flattened palms on his thighs, and said, “Show a little compassion, miss. I’ve been away from home for years. Been locked up in this stockade for a week. I’m a lonely man.”

  His dark head swung around and he looked directly at her, his eyes flashing in the moonlight. While his riveting gaze held hers, his hand slowly lifted from his thigh. He turned it over and offered it to her.

  Elizabeth, snared by those hypnotic eyes whose color she could not determine, shook her head no. But at the same time she placed tentative fingertips atop his warm, open palm. And then tingled from head to toe when his long, lean fingers closed firmly around her own.

  He said, barely above a whisper, “My God, you’ve got the smallest, softest hand I’ve ever held.”

  “You really shouldn’t be holding my hand,” she told him, feeling strangely warm and short of breath. He smiled engagingly, laced his fingers through hers, and drew her hand up to his chest. She gave a couple of halfhearted tugs to free herself, but wasn’t certain that’s what she actually wanted. He read the indecision. He didn’t let her go.

  Instead he sighed as though contented and began to speak of inconsequential things. His voice, low and gentle, was seductively soothing. The rich timbre of that deep male voice had a definite calming effect on Elizabeth’s raw nerves. Slowly, cautiously, Elizabeth began to relax ever so slightly.

  She exhaled deeply, slowly, and leaned her head back against the wall. She rolled her aching shoulders a couple of times. She allowed her tense body to go slack, her limbs to fall limp. The subtle change was duly noted by the bearded man seated beside her.

  He was tempted to speed up the process, to get on with it, to take her in his arms and kiss her half senseless. But he continued to speak in low, soft tones, patiently drawing her along the pleasing path that led to lovemaking. Almost absently, and talking all the while, he changed her small white hand from his left to his right, leaving the left arm free.

  Elizabeth noticed the switch, but didn’t see that it made any difference. She no longer tried to pull away. Surely there could be no harm in just holding hands, and the sound of his deep voice in the night was a comfort.

  He pressed her hand to his chest and casually slipped his arm around her slender shoulders. He felt her stiffen and she turned her face away. He patted her tense shoulder reassuringly, then rubbed her slender arm slowly up and down until he felt the tenseness leave and she slouched back against his solid shoulder.

  Drawing her steadily closer, he said, “Look at me.”

  Slowly, Elizabeth turned her head, looked into his eyes, and said unconvincingly, “You really should move back over there where you belong, Spy.”

  His long dark fingers tightened possessively on her shoulder. “I know,” he said. “But I don’t want to go.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed its back, and Elizabeth felt the pleasant tickle of his beard against her skin. She couldn’t keep from smiling.

  But then he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm, and her smile disappeared. He opened his mouth and let her feel his tongue teasingly trace her lifeline. She involuntarily shivered and felt her throat and ears flush red with heat. His bearded face still buried in the softness of her palm, he said, “Let me stay. For just a while. Just a little while longer.”

  He slowly lifted his head to look at her and in his flashing eyes was the unmistakable plea to let him stay. She knew she should say no. Knew to say anything else was courting trouble. This dark, bearded man was a Yankee, a spy, the enemy. Possibly very dangerous. How could she consider even speaking to him, much less allowing him to sit this close, to hold her hand, to kiss it.

  His mesmerizing gaze shifted to her parted lips and he spoke the plea aloud. “Let me.”

  Flustered, half frightened, half attracted, Elizabeth nervously cleared her throat. He was waiting for an answer, but his close masculine presence was so strong, his deep voice so seductive, she couldn’t remember the question. And just what exactly was he asking her to let him do?

  “Let you …”

  “Stay,” he said, and drew her so close she could feel his heartbeat against her right breast.

  “This … this is crazy,” she murmured breathlessly. “You are crazy.” He released her hand, tipped her chin up, and urged her head back to rest on his supporting arm. “We are crazy,” she added, the fabric of his gray tunic mildly abrasive to her cheek. She felt dizzy, weak. “I am crazy …” she whispered helplessly.

  “It’s the world gone crazy, not us.” All at once his eyes darkened with emotion. He stared at her mouth until Elizabeth felt her lips begin to tremble from his unnerving scrutiny. She tried to make them stop, couldn’t. She heard him murmur, “Will you kiss me? It’s been such a long, lonely time since last I kissed a beautiful young woman.” He paused, drew a deep, ragged breath, and lowered his dark face to hers until only an inch of space remained between their lips. “Kiss me, miss. Kiss me.”

  Her answer, of course, was an emphatic no, but Elizabeth found to her horror that her voice wouldn’t work. She couldn’t speak,
couldn’t make a sound. Violently she shook her head no.

  She was still shaking her head when his mouth possessively closed over hers. She continued to move her head from side to side, clearly protesting the intrusion, determined to free her lips from his.

  To her surprise, after only a few seconds, he released her. The strong arm around her abruptly drew her back up to a sitting position, then fell from her shoulders. The tanned fingers playing so tantalizingly on her face and throat departed. He leaned back against the wall, draped a forearm over his bent knee, and looked off into space.

  Elizabeth was both pleased and puzzled.

  Pleased that the enigmatic Yankee spy apparently did not intend to force himself on her. Puzzled—and a little offended—that her kiss stirred him so little, he hadn’t bothered to try a bit harder.

  He shifted slightly beside her and Elizabeth’s heart lurched, her breath caught. He was going to try again! Instinctively, she leaned closer, tilted her face up for his kiss.

  But he didn’t kiss her. He slumped more fully back against the wall, lolled lazily on his spine, tipped his dark head back. Watching him closely, Elizabeth’s parted lips dropped open in disbelief when, turning his head to glance indifferently at her, he yawned sleepily.

  And closed his eyes.

  Elizabeth frowned. She was thoroughly confused and more than a little insulted. She stared at him. His long, lean body was in an attitude of complete relaxation. Any second, he would fall asleep, if he hadn’t already.

  Good!

  That’s exactly what she wanted him to do. To go to sleep and leave her alone. He had no business thinking he could hold her hand and kiss her. He was a dirty Yankee spy who could not be trusted.

  Elizabeth continued to stare at him.

  In the dim light it was impossible to tell what he really looked like. She knew only that he had a bushy black beard, and a too-lean frame, and bold, bothersome eyes. In the harsh light of day, when he was cleanly shaven, he was probably ugly as sin.

  “Spy,” she said softly.

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Look at me.”

  His thick black lashes stirred restlessly, rose, and his smoldering eyes were fixed on her. She felt a jolt of electricity. She smiled at him and said, “I … I suppose if you want to kiss me one time it would be all right.”

  He didn’t move a muscle, just stayed there as he was, lounging back against the wall. He said, “I don’t want to kiss you, miss.”

  “You don’t?” Her voice was shrill and her finely arched eyebrows shot up.

  “Not really.” he said. “I want”—and his low voice became a gentle caress—“you to kiss me. Kiss me. Come kiss me.”

  Elizabeth pretended exasperation, but she turned fully to him, leaned close, placed her hands on either side of his bearded face, and gently cupped his jaws. She expected him to reach for her at any second. He didn’t do it. He remained as he was, in a posture of repose, waiting for her soft mouth to settle on his.

  Her heart beating loudly in her ears, Elizabeth cautiously placed her lips on his. She kissed him. It was a sweet, soft kiss and she was amazed by the warm smoothness of his lips.

  But she was tickled by his beard. Her hands still clinging to his face, she raised her head, wrinkled her nose, and laughed helplessly.

  “The beard tickles?” he asked, his hands slowly lifting to span her small waist.

  “A little,” she said, and rubbed at her itching nose.

  “I’d shave for you if I could,” he said, drawing her to him and kissing her. Those dense, tickling whiskers caused Elizabeth to continue laughing, even as his lips were on hers. He didn’t mind. He purposely tormented her, kissing her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, while she collapsed in peals of laughter. His lips came back to hers and against her mouth he said, “I love to hear a beautiful woman’s laughter.”

  Weak, her stomach jerking, she said, “It’s a good thing, because when you kiss me, I can’t keep from laughing.” She wiped at the tears of laughter rolling down her flushed cheeks.

  He looked at her lying in the crook of his arm, laughing. Her lovely eyes were shut. Her wild, gleaming hair was spilling over his arm and down to the straw-covered floor. Her slender body was shaking against his. She was incredibly desirable. His pulse began to beat rapidly and violently. The stirring of desire became a fierce hunger.

  “I … I’ll quit laughing now, I promise,” said Elizabeth, and continued to laugh. “I will, I will,” she gasped, pressing her face to his half-open gray tunic. The crisp, thick hair of his chest now tickled her nose and she went into fresh fits of laughter. Like a child that begs a parent to quit tickling him, then immediately begs for more when the parent stops, Elizabeth purposely rubbed her face against the abrasive, tickling chest hair and sputtered giddily, “I … I … can’t … can’t stop … I’ll never stop laughing …”

  He said, “Would you like me to make you stop laughing?”

  “Y-yes, but you … you can’t do it, Spy. Nobody could …”

  The smile left his dark face. He slid long fingers into her cascading hair, tightened them on the gleaming tresses, urged her head up and back until his face was just above hers. He looked into her eyes. A vein throbbed on his forehead. His open mouth descended slowly to hers.

  “I can.”

  5

  HIS MOUTH COVERED HER parted lips. Spasms of laughter still surging through her, Elizabeth began to cough and struggle. His invasive lips lifted, but his burning eyes bore directly into hers with a hot intensity that was sobering. Never had a man looked at her the way the Yankee was looking at her.

  Elizabeth’s laughter began to ebb away and soon it died completely. She swallowed anxiously and kept her eyes open as his lips slowly, surely descended to hers again.

  It was a kiss unlike any she had ever known or dreamed of. His lips were blazing hot. Hot and smooth and incredibly persuasive as they molded hers to his. His marvelous mouth took her breath away, made her forget entirely that a black, ticklish beard covered his lower face.

  For a dazzling moment in time he kissed her in the most deliciously dangerous way. It thrilled and frightened her. He literally took her breath away. His magnetic mouth drew all the breath from her body and made it his own. Forcefully, he sucked the very life and will from her. And the strangest thing about it was, she didn’t mind. She wanted him to have it. She gave it to him freely. Eagerly breathed and blew against his fiery lips.

  Just when she began to feel light-headed and weak and feared she would black out and sag lifeless in his arms, he gallantly offered the gift back. Gave her his hot, reviving breath. Sweetly, his lips sealed tightly to hers, he rhythmically pressed air into her mouth and down into her starving lungs.

  Elizabeth sucked anxiously at his heated lips, inhaling deeply, drawing life-sustaining oxygen from him.

  And when she was filled to overflowing, she sighed and tore her mouth from his. Dazed, she laid her head back on his hard, muscled arm and waited for her breathing to become slow and regular, for her heart to stop its frantic racing.

  He waited too. He held her as gently as if she were a child. He placed his dark hand directly atop her rapidly beating heart and waited for its fierce rhythm to slow.

  Too weak to protest his boldness, Elizabeth lay there and mentally swore that she would put an end to this risky foolishness as soon as she was herself again. She’d scramble hurriedly out of his arms, shoot to her feet, and send him back across the cell.

  It never happened.

  When her heartbeat had slowed to near normal and she made an attempt to rise, that commanding male mouth was immediately back on hers, his strong arms crushing her to his hard chest.

  If the last kiss had been dangerously stirring, this kiss was explosive. His silky tongue slid between her lips and teeth, thrust deeply into her mouth and touched hers. Elizabeth felt her stomach flutter crazily and the muscles in her inner thighs jump involuntarily. A new kind of heat swept through her and traveled with amazing speed
to every part of her body. Her toes and fingertips actually tingled.

  Alarmed and astounded, Elizabeth tried to escape that dazzling mouth, those tightly embracing arms.

  The Yankee wouldn’t let her go. He deepened the kiss. She struggled, valiantly fighting what she felt happening to her. It was no use. His burning lips, his nipping teeth, his thrusting tongue, soon conquered completely.

  Never in her nineteen years had she been kissed the way this Yankee spy kissed her, and she was as powerfully drawn to the sexual danger this dark stranger exuded as an infant is drawn to a red-hot stove. She felt the blood scalding through her veins, felt every bone in her body begin to melt in the incredible heat.

  Her breasts swelled against the tight bodice of her blue dress. Her stomach, beneath the full gathers of her skirts, contracted sharply and became almost concave.

  It was a one-sided contest. Elizabeth never stood a chance. She was naive and passionate. The Yankee was experienced and overwhelming. She was all but powerless against such a skilled, determined lover. Dazed by his blazing kiss, engulfed in rising passion, she clung helplessly to him, marveling at the things his mouth was doing to hers.

  When at last that fiercely potent kiss ended, when his lips lifted from hers and his strong arms loosened and she was free, Elizabeth no longer wanted to go. She didn’t move an inch. She didn’t want to leave him. Didn’t want him to leave her. She wanted—needed—to feel warm and wonderful for just a while longer. Wanted to taste more of those magical kisses. Wanted to feel his dark hands caressing her back and shoulders.

  The message radiated from her shining eyes.

  Armed with that knowledge, the Yankee again stretched his long, lean legs straight out before him. Half turning, he kissed her, and put both hands to her narrow waist. His mouth never leaving hers, he quickly lifted her onto his lap.

  When the kiss ended, Elizabeth opened her eyes, gasped for breath, and threw back her head when she felt his lips seek out the hollow of her throat.