"Is this any way to greet a dream lover?"
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Chapter 16
She went still. Ramon. Relief swept her, and with it the shock of outrage. Hard on their heels came the realization of what he had said. That foolish fantasy. Why in the name of heaven had she ever confided it to him? Why? It had become, in his skilled and callous hands, a weapon.
"That's better," he murmured, and slowly decreased the pressure on her mouth, lifting his hand away.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I came at the request of a lady."
His breath was warm against her cheek, his voice husky. He lowered his hand until it came to rest on the curve of her breast above the clasp of his forearm. Through the thin material of her nightgown, she could feel the hard pressure of the muscles of his legs against the backs of her thighs. The clean male smell of him was in her nostrils, along with the salt tang of the sea and the fresh scent of the night. Weakness crept along her limbs, an insidious thing, as if desire were a form of poison. Trying to banish its debilitating effects, she shook her head, so that her unbound hair dipped and swayed like a curtain of soft spun silk around her. "No."
"Oh, but yes."
"You are mistaken."
"No. Such a thing, I could not forget. And, if you say that you have, chérie, remember that I can feel your heartbeat, and if you lie I will know it."
Routed from her position before she had even taken it, she was forced to other defenses. Her voice cold, she said, "Let me go."
"So, you can scorn me and flay me with words. Never." He rubbed his cheek against her hair, moving the fine strands aside to nuzzle her ear.
"You…you think that this is all you have to do, to touch me, and my resolve will melt, so you can do as you will."
"It isn't your resolve," he said, his low voice etched with certainty, "that interests me."
Her body was on fire, and it was a desperate effort not to press, herself against him in surrender. From the depths of her self-disgust she cried, "But, I despise you!"
"Don't you think I know that." The words were rasping as his hold tightened. "It doesn't matter. I have no resolve, and little pride of the kind that would keep me from you. I am a man bewitched. The need of you is a torment beyond bearing. To stay away is more than I can do, though I tried."
"Oh, yes, you wanted to see me so badly that you could barely force yourself to go to the opera tonight with Charlotte Lansing instead!" Any weapon would do as a means of protection.
"Were you jealous?"
"I? Don't be ridiculous!"
"Why else should you mind?"
His thumb was brushing the peak of her breast. She shivered. A ragged sound in her voice, she said, "I didn't mind! I…I only meant to say that I don't believe you have been pining for me."
"I was jealous," he admitted, his voice pensive. "I could have seen Peter drawn and quartered with pleasure, have hanged him myself from the yardarm, or ordered him keel-hauled."
"Am I supposed to care? I want nothing to do with you. Nothing."
"Is that why your heart is fluttering like a wild thing under my hand?"
"Get out," she cried. "Get out and leave me alone!"
"After going to such effort to come to you? How can you suggest it?"
He shifted his grasp and she felt herself lifted with his arms beneath her knees. He turned toward the white bulk of the bed and strode to duck beneath the looped mosquito netting, placing her on the yielding surface of the mattress. The moment she felt its softness, she threw herself from him, sliding, reaching for the other side. He lunged after her, pinning her to the bed with his weight. With the fury of a cornered wildcat, she struck for his face. He turned his head so that her fingers sank into his thick hair. She closed her hand, only to have him catch her wrist, snatching her grasp free. He had her other arm beneath him. Shifting to put his knee across her flailing legs, he lowered his head then, seeking her mouth.
His victory had been so easy. Panting with exertion, trembling with rage and something more that she refused to name, she waited until his lips touched hers, then she sank her teeth into the lower one.
He jerked back, his elbow sliding on the satin length of her hair that was spread around them. He shifted, and his shoulder with his weight behind it pressed into her breast. She gave a soft moan of pain.
Instantly, he pushed from her, swearing under his breath. He released her and wrenched himself to a sitting position on the side of the bed. A moment later, he came erect and moved to the French doors, where he stood in the opening with one hand braced on the frame and his head down, his breathing harsh.
Over his shoulder, he said, "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
With his retreat, his sudden freeing of her, she felt peculiar, almost as if she had been deserted. She drew her knee up and turned to her side to stare at his tall figure silhouetted against the sky in the window frame, at his square shoulders and bent head. As if the words were forced from heir, she said, "I know."
"I didn't mean it now, nor that afternoon at Beau Repose, and especially not when I brought you to Nassau. It was just…something it seemed I had to do. You have every right to blame me, even to hate me."
With the threat of physical coercion removed, she could think rationally once more. She ran her tongue over her lips, sending him another swift glance. "I don't-hate you, that is."
He turned slowly, his movements concentrated, as if he were weighing the sound of her words. "But, you blame me."
"Not entirely." Honesty compelled the answer. If she had not gone riding that earlier afternoon, if she had turned and left the deserted house the instant she had heard the sound of his guitar, if she had stated plainly that she would not permit intimacies, then her position might now be different. It might, in fact, be worse.
"I want you," he said, the words strained. "The need of you is like a fever in my blood. I could force you to respond to me, or take my pleasure without it, but that isn't what I want."
She could deny nothing he had said. Wasn't the turmoil fading from her veins proof that he had only to touch her to bring forth a response, regardless of the strength of her will? And she could not claim that it was the frustration of being denied the pleasures of the body that drove her. Peter's touch had left her unmoved beyond the warmth of compassion and friendship.
Still, she said nothing; there were times when it was best not to press honesty too hard.
His clothing rustled as he moved toward her. The foot of the bed sagged, the bed ropes complaining, as he put one knee upon it. "I would ask you to forget what has been between us. Pretend, if you will, that this is no more than a dream. Make me a part of it, chérie. Permit me to share your dream with you; only that, nothing more."
No doubt he meant what he said, for the moment. The trouble was that the moment would pass, and then what? His plea, passionate though it might be, had contained no hint of permanence; if anything, quite the opposite. And yet, the night was dark and soft, and the need to become lost in it strong. Given the flaws in his character and her reaction to them, was she certain she wanted to be with him always? If not, how could she fault him for not offering something she did not want?
Even as she considered, he closed his warm hand upon her ankle. He sat down on the bed and leaned to rest his weight on his elbow, his thumb moving in slow circles upon the sensitive instep of her foot. It was an oddly soothing motion, certainly not as if he were touching her more intimately. She lay still, hearing the strength and timbre of his plea echoing in her mind. She did not want to deny it, but how could she agree? Whether from an urge to distract him, or herself, she finally spoke.
"They say you will be making another run."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"So soon?"
"It has to be soon or not at all." His voice was steady. His fingers inched higher, stroking her ankle, circling it, his grip so sure that she felt i
t would be difficult to break. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the delicate arch of her instep. She felt the moist flick of his tongue.
She controlled a shiver. "You…you will be going to Wilmington again?"
"Uhmm."
His breath, ticklish and warm, touched her ankle. His tongue flicked the hollow just below it. So novel was the sensation that it was a moment before she realized his hand had crept higher, pushing aside the hem of her nightgown, massaging her calf and the turn underneath her knee.
"Your cargo," she said, grasping at a subject, "is it a dangerous one?"
"Hardware."
It sounded innocuous enough, but she knew that was the term used on the manifests of the runners to indicate arms and munitions consigned to the Confederate government. Her voice almost a whisper, she said, "Gunpowder?"
"Not this time. And no bonnets."
The last barely penetrated the lassitude that had crept over her. "Are you certain it's safe enough? The moon is nearly at the quarter already."
"Why? Are you worried that I might have to stay in Wilmington until the next dark moon?" His hands were upon her thighs, the heated wetness of his mouth at the bend of her knee.
"It could happen," she said, the words little more than a whisper, "if the reloading is slow."
"It won't be, I'll have to sail under a half moon, but will gain and leave port before moonrise."
"But, the risk!"
"They won't be expecting us. We'll catch them napping."
"Ramon, no, I-" She scarcely knew to what she meant to object, his going, his calculations of the moon phases, or the insistent, invasive play of his hand.
"Yes, chérie?" he mocked her gently, a husky note in his voice.
The hem of her nightgown was at her waist, his touch, feather-light, ceaselessly caressing, was on her hips, while he gently nipped the tender skin of her inner thigh with his teeth. She moaned a low sound instantly stifled. She put her hand on his shoulder, trying to halt his upward progress. He paid no heed, and after a moment her fingers spread, closing on the knotted muscles she found there.
His hold tightened, drawing her toward him, and he pressed his face to her, seeking and finding the warm, honeyed entrance to the depths of her body. He slid his hands to the slender indentation of her waist, spanning it, kneading, hovering over the fluttering muscles of her abdomen. Gently marauding, inescapable, they moved to the mounds of her breasts that shuddered with the pounding of her heart, fastening upon them, teasing the nipples until she was caught in a triangle of fire, her pulse leaping with molten desire.
She wanted him; she could not help herself. She arched toward him, her leg muscles stiff and her breath sobbing in her throat. She plucked at his shirt, and with slow reluctance he released her, shifting to draw her nightgown off over her head. She helped him then to divest himself of his own clothing, pausing as she explored in sensual wonder the ready maleness of his body. Then, he caught her to him, molding her to his hard length.
She took his face between her hands, setting her mouth to his in hunger, boldly probing its firm contours with the tip of her tongue, thrusting inside. His grasp tightened, and he rolled with her, bringing her on top of him. He ran his hand down the tapering slimness of her back to her hips, and, twining her legs with his own, spread them wide as he pressed into her.
The scented cloak of her hair fell forward around them. Of her own accord, she moved upon him, wanting, needing that sweet and fervid friction. Pleasure mounted to her brain, intoxicating, overriding thought. He aided her, his hands encouraging, inflaming, taking the strain of her weight from her. She was soaring in an ageless rhythm, transfigured with the delight that sang in her veins. Only her own frailty, her inability to sustain the pace, held her earthbound.
He shifted, turning with her so they lay on their sides, gently, but surely taking from her the responsibility for her pleasure, and his own. He stepped up the pace, making it faster, more vital, so that she clung to him, motionless, suspended in splendor, feeling the dissolving of her being. Love was an ache, a joy, inside her and she buried her face in his neck, whispering his name, parting her lips to taste the salt of his skin.
With a hoarse sound in his throat, he heaved himself up and over, turning her to her back. His penetration was deep and violent. The shock of his thrusts rippled over her in waves of pleasure. Her eyes flew open and she caught his arms, feeling their trembling as she rose to meet him. Together they strove with fevered effort and hoarse, ragged gasps for air. The surface of their skin burned and perspiration made their bodies slippery to the touch.
It burst upon her abruptly, a wondrous thing, a tumult of the senses that defied petty reason, a voluptuous reveling in bodily gratification, bliss, so intense it affected the nerves, being perilously near pain; joy that verged on despair.
With a strangled cry, Lorna went still, her fingers frozen on Ramon's arms. He gathered himself and plunged deep, pressing her down, holding her as the dark explosion gripped them.
Long moments later, he eased from her and rolled to his side. He drew her against him, freeing the ends of her hair, smoothing back the tangled tresses from her face as her head lay pillowed on his shoulder. His chest rose and fell in a sigh of deep contentment. He was still. Lorna's hand clenched his side, then relaxed. Like one near unconsciousness, she slept.
It might have been a quarter of an hour or an hour later when she awoke. Ramon lay tense, listening, beside her. After a moment, she heard what had alerted him. It was the scrape of footsteps. They came from the veranda beyond the open French doors, though farther along, back toward the piazza from her room. There was about them a deliberate sound, as if someone was moving slowly, trying not to awaken the people sleeping. With each alternate step, there was the creak of strained shoe leather.
Ramon brushed a hand over her shoulder in reassurance, then with swift grace rolled from the bed. He found his trousers and slipped into them, then pulled on his boots, his head up, listening. He moved to stand between the two French doors, his back to the wall. Turning his head, he pressed back until he could see out the left door.
The footsteps came nearer, almost creeping. Ramon's tall form merged with the still darkness. The breeze from the sea moved into the room, causing the mosquito netting to sway. It brought with it the night coolness and the soft rustle of the palms in the garden, which sounded a little like falling rain. With wide and burning eyes, Lorna stared at the door opening, her hands clenched on the pillow that had somehow worked its way down beside her.
The slow creak came again, just outside. A shadow moved, looming large, then crossed the threshold into the room. Ramon lunged, grabbing an arm, twisting it behind the man's back. At the same time, he locked his other arm around the man's neck. There was a savage grunt and a curse; then, all was still.
"The light," Ramon said.
Lorna scrambled erect, finding her nightgown, pulling it on without thought of whether it was right side out, snatching at her wrapper as she leaped from the bed and went toward the gas fixture. With fingers that trembled, she found matches and struck one, then removed the globe and held the flame to the burner before turning the key. Only then did she turn toward the two men at the French doors.
"Nate," she said. There was no surprise in the sound, only angry disgust.
In the glow of the gaslight, his face was contorted with rage, darkened by the blood that suffused his face from the strength of Ramon's grip on his throat. "Who did you expect, another of your precious blockade captains to bed you? I should have known one had preceded me when I found the rope and saw the outside guard missing."
The words ended in a shallow wheeze as Ramon's grip constricted his breathing still further. "Keep a civil tongue in your head, if you care about living," he advised in harsh tones.
Nathaniel Bacon was forced up onto his toes by Ramon's hold on him. His arrogance was scarcely troubled, however. "You won't harm me, not here. You may as well let me go before I decide to make trouble for
you."
"You make trouble for me?" Ramon asked in grim amusement. "I wonder how Her Majesty's police would feel about a sneak thief creeping up and down the verandas of the Royal Victoria? Don't you think they might find that a bit suspect?"
"You would have to explain to them why you were here with our dear Lorna. You won't go to the officials." Nate raised a hand to the arm clamped at his throat, clawing at it.
"She isn't our Lorna," Ramon corrected with deadly softness. "She is mine."
"And who else's?"
Nate had lowered his hand. Even as he coughed, choking at the relentless increase of the pressure on his windpipe, his fingers went groping to the pocket of his waistcoat of grass green brocade.
Lorna guessed his purpose before she saw the glint of dark metal. She started forward, crying, "Look out, he has a gun!"
Ramon released his hold, throwing himself to the right even as Lorna's former father-in-law twisted around, pulling the trigger. The snub-nosed derringer went off with a shattering roar in the nights stillness. A pane of glass fell tinkling to the floor.
Hard on the sound, Ramon cannoned into Nate, driving him backward. They hit the floor with a resounding crash. The derringer flew from Nate's hand, skidding across the floor. Lorna dashed forward in a flurry of white batiste to scoop it up, then whirled out of the way as the two men wrestled on the floor.
From outside the room came the sound of running feet, the cries of awakened hotel guests. "Douse the light," Ramon snapped.
As she swung to obey, she saw the tight fury that darkened his face, the vicious strength that went into the blow he drove at Nate in the last rays of the fading light. The older man gave a groan; then all was quiet. She heard the thud plainly as he fell back against the floorboards.
Ramon sprang up, looking, groping for his shirt. He slung it around his neck, then spun back toward Nate. At that moment, a hard knocking began on the corridor door.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 33