Her footsteps were slow as she moved toward him. Taking the place he had arranged for her, she said, "I can only stay a moment. I was forced to take shelter from the storm. My…my groom will wonder what has become of me."
"So you were not riding alone? For someone who looks as you do, that would have been most unwise. Your servant is downstairs?"
His compliment had been so offhand, so quickly passed over for the next question, that she had not time to resent it. She shook her head, giving him a less than complete version of what had happened.
As she spoke, he reached for a flask that sat to one side. Of silver, it had a small cap that unscrewed to form a cup the size of a demitasse. Removing it, he poured a dark liquid into the cup and, as she finished speaking, handed it to her.
With a sympathetic comment for her tale, he asked, "Would you care for coffee? I'm afraid it's laced with brandy, but that should help to warm you."
The gesture was merely courteous, his smile wry. The coffee smelled delicious; brandy was used even by her Aunt Madelyn as a restorative. She reached out to accept the cup. Her fingers brushed his, and the leap of her nerves was such that she might have touched a hot coal. Her hand jerked a bit and she sent a startled glance at the man standing over her, but recovered without spilling the coffee as it was transferred to her hand.
The concoction was hot and sweet. She sipped at it with care and was grateful for the immediate, spreading warmth it brought. She was happy, also, when her benefactor stepped back, standing before the fire with his hands behind his back. At the same time, she was acutely aware of the intentness of his gaze upon her. She moistened her lips.
"You must live nearby now, to have brought such refreshment with you."
He gave an amused shake of his head at her transparent effort to discover something about him. "I have been visiting in the neighborhood, but left my hostess this afternoon, returning…home."
"I see." His hesitation before the last word seemed peculiar. "You are seeking cover from the rain, too, then, I suppose. But, I would not deprive you of your provisions for the journey."
As she held out the flask cup, still half full of coffee, he smiled. "Don't let it trouble you. I deem it an honor, and my great good fortune, to be able to contribute to the comfort of a lady."
It was mere politeness, of course; still, there was something in his manner, in the inflection of his words, that disturbed her. Despite her subtle inquiry, he had made no attempt to identify himself. She proffered the cup once more. "I really should be going."
"I understand your need to be away," he said, moving to take the cup, turning it so that, deliberately or accidentally, when he raised it to his lips to drain the contents, his lips met the same place her own had touched. He smiled into her eyes, his face taking on a devastating charm, as he lowered it once more. "But, it would be folly to go while the rain still falls, would it not? And you are soaked. Surely, it would be best to stay here, to remove your jacket to dry, or at least take off your hat? I'm sure that creation on your head was once most becoming, but the feather is dripping dye onto your shoulder."
With an exclamation of dismay, she reached up to feel the sopping feather. Lifting her hands, she drew out the jet-tipped hat pin that held her small hat and whipped it off. The feather, once so fine and of a delicate shade of robin's-egg blue, was undoubtedly bedraggled. As he had said, it had been dripping down the back of her neck, though he had been kind enough not to put it in just that way. At the thought of how she must have looked in her half-drowned dignity, a chuckle escaped her. She glanced up at him with rare laughter lighting her gray eyes.
He watched her, an arrested look on his strong, bronzed features. His black eyes were fathomless, filled with dangerous, shifting currents. An instant later, his lashes came down, and a smile tugged the corners of his mouth. Reaching out, he took the hat from her hand and returned to the fireplace, where he placed both it and the cup upon the mantelpiece.
Swinging back to face her, he said, "Now the jacket?"
"I will keep it on," she returned.
"Because I prefer it. Must there be another reason?"
He shook his head, as if in disbelief. "You can't really want to wear anything so cold and clammy. Think of your health."
"If you must know, it isn't made to be removed, not-"
"Not in mixed company, or in public? A peculiar vanity, isn't it? You do have on a shirtwaist?"
"A mere sham, only a front and back," she said through set teeth, aware of her amazement at the turn their conversation had taken. But, if she expected him to be discomfited, she was soon disabused of the idea.
"Ah, modesty prevents you. Which is more important, its preservation or your comfort and well-being? Come, don't be prudish. I will turn my back."
He did exactly that, pivoting, moving to a cotton bale on the opposite side of the fire. The close-packed bale had been torn open, so that the fluffy white cotton spilled out like the stuffing from a pillow. He leaned over, with the smooth, animal-like coordination of an outdoorsman, to grasp great handfuls of the white mass. Dropping puffs along the way, he swung to toss it onto the fire. So close-fitting were his trousers of fawn broad-cloth that she could see plainly the flex of the muscles in his thighs and narrow hips as he moved. 'She looked quickly away, aware of an odd heat in the pit of her stomach. Her gaze focused on what he was doing.
"You…you're burning cotton," she said wonderingly. Until that moment, she had not noticed that the flames in the fireplace did not come from wood.
"It won't be missed."
"But think of the money! Cotton is like white gold."
"The money," he said, throwing another double handful onto the yellow-orange flames, "will not be missed either."
She frowned in an effort to understand his cryptic comment. "Because there's little market for it now, with the blockade? But when the war is over-" "When the war is over will be the time to worry about it. For the moment, there are things more important."
She followed his movements as he returned to stand before her, then, with controlled grace, went to one knee. He raised his hands and began to unfasten the buttons of gray mother-of-pearl that closed her jacket, his fingers sure at their task. His voice was soft as he asked, "Shall I help you, ma chére?"
With a quick exclamation, she brought her hands up to catch his wrists. The warmth of his body, the clean male and starched-linen smell of him, the corded strength of the tendons and muscles under her fingers, the overpowering presence of the man himself assaulted her senses, and the sharp reprimand on her tongue died unspoken. A heated flush rose to her hairline for the omission, increasing as she found herself rationalizing that the soft French endearment he had spoken meant only "my dear" and was used often to address children, relatives, and friends. As she spoke, she heard with shame the huskiness of her own tone.
"I can manage."
He allowed his gaze to rise to her face, his mouth faintly curving as his dark eyes probed the gray of hers. "I'm sure you can, but will you?"
"It…seems the wisest course." The double entendre was spoken before she could bite it back.
"You are wise, I think, if nothing else."
There was no time to wonder at the abrupt coolness in his face or the flatness of his tone. As she set her fingers to her own buttons and began to work at them, he lifted his hands to probe the intricate coil of hair at the back of her head, quickly drawing out the pins. She jerked away, and the heavy weight slid, spilling down her back. He pushed his fingers through the long damp strands, spreading them, drawing their silken length over her shoulders where they hung shining like aged satin in the firelight.
"It was wet," he said in answer to the startled disbelief, the mute question in her eyes. "And, you must be cold still, I think; you're shivering."
A moment later, he was seated beside her, drawing her against the warm strength of his chest, pushing the jacket from her, and flinging it aside. She was cold, yes, but that was not the reason for the
convulsive tremors that ran over her as she felt the intense furnace heat of his arms, knew their tenuous safety. Bemused by his daring, so unthinkable in a gentleman of his class toward a gently bred female, she was still for a frozen instant. His dark gaze swept her face, and he lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Another convulsive tremor ran over her as his warm fingers trailed downward over the smooth and delicate turn of her jawline to the arch of her neck and the pulse that throbbed there. For a long moment they were still, suspended in time, then, almost as if he could not prevent the impulse, he touched his mouth to hers.
Lightning crackled, flaring white and fiery into the room. Its vibrant tension invaded Lorna's, senses, banishing her chill even as it paralyzed her will. Under the fierce, searching fire of the kiss, her cool lips warmed, clung. He teased their moist and tender corners, first one, then the other, brushing their sensitive surfaces with unhurried enjoyment. She murmured in protest, going rigid, but he paid no heed, only drawing her closer still, deepening his kiss. His fingers trailed a tingling path along her jawline and downward to the swell of her breasts beneath the thin, tucked lawn of her shirtwaist. He cupped that taut fullness, gently brushing his thumb over the peak.
Never had she been treated in such a fashion, never had she felt so intimate a caress. Lorna clenched her hand that lay against his chest into a fist, pushing at him, dragging her mouth from his with a strangled gasp. Recovering her breath, she demanded, "What-what are you doing?"
He smiled, his eyes hooded, the light in their depths provocative, sensual, yet shadowed with tension. "Making love to you, chérie."
"You can't!" The words that should have been a cry came out as a whisper. Darling, he had said.
"Can't I?"
There were many things she could have done; screamed, struck out at him, torn herself from his arms, and run. Instead, she only stared at him in bemused distress, the unbidden thought striking deep into her mind of the wedding night that was soon to come, of the man who would lie in her bed then, of her heartfelt vow made in silent anguish so short a time ago-that she would rather give herself to any other man. Any man at all.
"This is madness," she managed. The press of his fingers into her arm was warm, light, yet with such tensile strength that she knew instinctively it would be near impossible to break his hold.
"Yes," he agreed, his voice deep.
"Then, let me go."
His dark gaze searched her face, coming to rest on the vulnerable rose-pink softness of her mouth. "That I can't-won't-do. Not even if you wanted it, which, in all truth, I don't think you do."
A heated flush swept again to her hairline and she opened her mouth to refute the charge. The words died unspoken. Lorna had never lied to herself, and, even for the sake of self-preservation, she could not begin now. A stricken expression seeped into her gray eyes, darkening their color, mingling with the reckless despair that was mirrored there.
"Dieu men garde," he whispered, his voice hoarse as he pulled her against him. Her lashes fluttered down as his lips sought hers and, sighing, she abandoned resistance, pressing closer. The probing gentleness of his mouth tasted of brandied coffee, heady, bittersweet. His lips were firm, bringing throbbing heat to her own as he traced their finely molded edges and contours, tasting their sweetness, teasing them apart to explore the moist inner surfaces. She touched his tongue with her own, shyly at first, then with rash acceptance. His hands upon her, seeking, tantalizing, brought beguilement. She could feel the restrained power of his body as he cradled her against him, sense the deep pounding of his heart. It was as if they were compelled by desperate needs and desires, by a fine inevitability that disregarded human wishes, either his or her own.
The constraint of embarrassment ebbed, to be replaced by the flickering rise of excitement. Warmth flowed through her veins. The anticipation of pleasure uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, flowing outward, tingling through her body. With an urgency that was frightening, shocking, she wanted his touch upon her bare skin.
He pressed her back, shouldering aside the bale of cotton behind them, so that it thudded to the floor, leaving the spreading surface of the other two there before the fire. The lace-edged jabot at her throat loosened under his deft touch. Untying the ends, he drew them aside, exposing the slender column of her neck and the delicate hollow at its base. He pressed his lips to that depression, testing its sweet fragility, touching his tongue to the pulse beat that fluttered there as he freed the buttons of her shirtwaist. As he drew the folds of lawn aside, he trailed burning fire downward to the gentle curves of her breasts above her lace-edged camisole. He raised his head then, unhooking her skirt, drawing the bottom of her camisole upward and stripping it off with her shirtwaist, dropping them to the floor. The heavy poplin of her habit skirt make a quiet, slithering sound as it was pushed from her to join the other clothing on the floor.
Lorna had no need of a corset beneath her habit, so slender was her form. In an incoherent comer of her mind, she was glad as she lay with only her tucked and lace-edged pantaloons left to her, waiting in languorous apprehension, watching from under lowered lashes, for what would come next.
His own waistcoat and shirt were shrugged away, revealing the bronze planes of his chest with its dark hair, the wide shoulders tapering to the narrowness of his waist. The sheathing of muscle that stood out in the firelight indicated hard effort, belying his look of the indolent gentleman. He unfastened his trousers, moving to discard them. She allowed her gaze to follow his movements, directed by curiosity. An instant later, she brought it swiftly back up to his navel, disconcerted by the virile beauty of his male body, a conviction in her mind that it was impossible for it to be joined to her, impossible.
He turned to her, gathering her close once more. His face absorbed, with twin points of firelight dancing in the depths of his eyes, he spread his hand over her abdomen, sliding it upward to cup first one white, blue-veined breast, then the other, taking each straining rosy peak into the wet heat of his mouth as the firm mounds swelled to fill his hand. She caught her breath in a ragged sound as his hand moved, smoothing in slow circles, sliding downward to slip beneath the waistband of her pantaloons. He spread his fingers wide over the velvet skin of her belly, kneading, easing lower still until he could reach the apex of her thighs.
Her muscles tensed at his first, unbearably intimate touch.
She shut her eyes tightly and tried in reflex action to close her thighs, but he would not permit it. Then, came that first stirring of purest sensation. By infinite degrees, she relaxed. The pleasure grew, a boundless thing that erased doubt and fear. For a brief space of time, she was acutely aware of the firm resilience of his arms, the race of the blood in her veins, the feel of the silk lining of his jacket underneath her back, the rasp of the hair on his chest against the curve of her waist, the tantalizing track of his tongue as he circled the peaks of her breasts before capturing them once more with the heated passion of his mouth. She was alive in a way she had never been before, drowning in the rising clamor of her senses. Awareness receded then, replaced by the molten flow of desire. There was nothing except the two of them and the echoing emptiness of the old house, the sound of the rain and the infinite dimness of the evening.
She touched his hair, twining her fingers in its vital crispness, sliding them down the strong column of his neck to the taut muscles of his shoulders. She spread her palms, feeling the powerful rippling beneath them with joyous wonder and pure, sensual pleasure. Her lips parted, trembling. She felt as if her blood was on fire, that her skin was aflame with a heat that was internal, consuming. There was a sense of fullness in her loins, and the ache of hollowness deep inside her that might never be assuaged, never filled. With a low sound in her throat, she turned, arching toward the man who held her.
He grasped her waist, sliding his hand over the slender curve of one hip, drawing her against the unyielding shaft of his manhood as he stretched out beside her. She did not shrink from it but, with trembling joy, moved to
accommodate the burning, pulsating entry.
The piercing pain stopped her breath. She went rigid with the sudden wetness of tears in her eyes. A shudder ran over her as he stopped at that sudden, unbreached threshold, but she could not make a sound. She clung to him, her nails sinking into his arms in her extreme disappointment. The rustle of his quiet curse disturbed the hair at her temple; his hold tightened.
Then, with a quick twist of his hips, he thrust into her, pressing deep, breaking through that tight circle of agony into beatitude.
He was still for a long moment, then slowly, sweetly, he moved against her, so that the tension receded and prickling enjoyment took its place. It was done, and the delight of it rose inside her, blending with the warm, liquid glide of ecstasy. As he raised himself above her, turning her to her back, she lifted her lashes to stare up at him.
Bathed in fireglow, burnished by its golden light, he had the look of a pagan god, self-contained and powerful. She lowered her hands to slide them over his chest, trailing her fingertips through the triangle of soft hair that led downward over the hard surface of his belly. She met his dark gaze, seeing herself in miniature reflected doubly in the mirror-like surfaces of his eyes.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
A twisted shadow crossed his face and was gone. He lowered his mouth until it was less than a hair's breadth above her own. "Does it matter, ma chére?"
"No," she murmured, lifting her hands to cradle his head, drawing his lips down to hers. "No," she said again as he sank into her, taking her plunging with him deep into passion's blood-red heart.
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Chapter 2
The fire had died to smouldering ash. The storm had rumbled away into the distance, leaving only the softly falling rain beyond the windows. Still they lay, their limbs intertwined, their chests rising and falling with their breathing, which was even at last. Lorna's hair had dried. It lay fanned over the cotton bale, cascading down the side, shimmering taupe-gold in the firelit dimness. Her cheek was pillowed against his chest, while his lips brushed the top of her head. In the aftermath of intolerable pleasure, they held each other, staring wide-eyed, as if stunned, into the gathering darkness.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 3