The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He growled, his head falling back, and his body rocked in rhythm with her touch. Her pulse leaped, as hunger pooled fire-bright deep within her. She tightened her legs, muscles throbbing deep within her and liquid heat gliding onto her thigh. Dear God in heaven, she needed to protect herself somehow from completely acting out her animal desires.

  “Turn around and grip the bedpost,” she gasped.

  He hesitated for a long, long moment until she thought she might have to speak to him again. But with a great shuddering breath, as if he argued with himself, he spun around to straddle the bedpost.

  She gulped, caught by the play of muscles in his hard thighs, and moved closer. Would he straddle her the same way, if he knelt over her to let her taste his cock?

  His head swiveled to watch her. Were his eyes just a little too intent, rather than dazed with passion?

  She stroked herself against his back, letting her skirts and petticoats rasp his legs. She was warm, so warm, as if it were an August day, not late December. He rocked against her, groaning her name softly, his hands tight around the iron bedpost as she’d ordered.

  Lord above, how she wanted to unbutton her bodice, open her corset and chemise, and press her aching breasts against him. Surely it wouldn’t hurt if she undid the top few buttons. Not enough to show anything but enough to give herself some air?

  She forced herself to step away, her breathing ragged. “Unfasten your trousers. But don’t touch your intimate flesh.”

  He choked off something, probably impolite, before she could understand the words, but obeyed. She fumbled over undoing her two buttons, her tongue flickering over her lip as she watched him. She needed to touch him, see him, taste him…Dear heaven, where had that thought come from?

  Outside, the hoofbeats were louder but not worthy of attention, especially not when compared to being able to openly examine his—cock?

  She circled him, nibbling a fingernail nervously, and closely surveyed her prize. It was definitely thicker than her wrist, of a remarkable length—what woman could possibly conceive of taking such a fiery brand inside her?—flushed crimson and brushed with throbbing blue veins, standing proud and tall, gilded by liquid gliding from the top. So utterly unlike the cold marble statues she’d seen in size and color, so much more interesting—and so very much more inviting and delicious. She wanted more of it, more of him. She wanted to touch it, measure it, rub it, rub herself against it, fill herself with it…

  Fill herself with Morgan…

  She delicately touched the very tip, where it was shaped rather like a mushroom. It was hot, velvety soft, yet hard underneath—and it jerked violently, all the way down to its base.

  She yanked her hand back and her eyes flashed up to his face.

  He was biting his lip so hard he’d drawn blood. His jaw was clenched so tightly she couldn’t tell if he felt pleasure or pain. Involuntarily, she stepped away from him.

  His hands tightened on the bedpost, a fine tremor running all the way through his body. A narrow crimson line trailed down his chin, and his gray eyes were hooded like an eagle’s. “Don’t you want to handle me, Jessamyn?” he crooned.

  She hesitated, panting, her stomach heaving and her pulse racing. Every instinct warned her that he was both dangerous and irresistible.

  “Do you think I’m interesting? Attractive? All you have to do is reach out, Jessamyn.”

  Caught by the lure in those soft words, she finally nodded. She might be doomed for this but she had to do more. “Lie down on the bed,” she whispered, “and hold on to the posts.”

  He obeyed her, his eyes on her the entire time, as if challenging her to fondle him. He made a shameless display, while centering himself on the bed: He wiggled his hips and bucked and bent his knees. His cock bobbed and curved harder toward his belly, while his trousers slid farther down.

  Her breath stopped at the sight. She was shockingly conscious of the aching heat between her thighs. She wanted, more than she’d longed for the sweetest Christmas present, to slide her tongue over him. To run her teeth over him, just to test his firmness. And feast her mouth for hours on the rich delicacy of his engorged flesh. Heaven knows how she’d wrap her lips around him but such challenges were the spice of life.

  The first slow smile of pure carnal heedlessness slowly awoke on Jessamyn’s mouth. She licked her lips slowly, sat down on the bed beside him, and reached for him.

  Morgan grabbed her hands and tumbled her onto the bed under him, settling his full weight between her legs and covering her mouth with his other hand. His gray eyes were wide open and completely focused on her, while his iron-hard cock rubbed against her thighs. He meant to have his way with her and he was much, much stronger and deadlier than she was. He was entirely masculine, entirely dangerous—and her body was still hot and eager for him, him alone. Morgan, who was beautiful and dangerous and forbidden.

  She was breathless with shock—or was it anticipation?

  He smiled down at her, in a curve of dark masculine intent. He imprinted himself on every inch of her, the hard planes of his chest flattening her nipples’ hard points, which brought them up faster. His scent stealing into her nostrils, the sound of his breathing seducing hers into matching its steadiness. The narrowness of his hips demanding that hers widen to cradle his. The hard strength of his legs ready to thrust hers open.

  Something feminine deep inside Jessamyn recognized him and melted in welcome. Her eyes widened, and her hands flexed to hold him—not to push him away.

  “And now, Jessamyn mine,” Morgan growled, his eyes blazing with assurance as they roamed over her, “you will learn what a man does with his captive. I will plunder your mouth until your lips are bruised—yet your voice will cry out for more. I will knead and plump and suckle your breasts until you ache, but you will arch under me in anticipation and desperation for another touch.” His gaze swept over her, lingering insultingly on the top of her chemise where it peeped out of her dress.

  Good God in heaven, what was happening to her? How could Morgan’s voice sink into her blood like the richest of aphrodisiacs, until all she wanted was to grab his head and pull him down? “Morgan, no! Don’t speak like that.”

  But her protests sounded all too much like sighs of maidenly virtue, rather than true outrage.

  “I will lift your skirts, Jessamyn, up to your waist. Your skirts and your petticoats. I will rip off your drawers—”

  “Please, Morgan…” Could that be cream gliding hotly down her thigh?

  “And my cock, Jessamyn, which your hands have pleasured so well?”

  Her body clenched, her thighs tightening as if riding him. Her blood sang, starting the rise to ecstasy.

  “You will welcome me into your body and then beg me for more, as you have made me ache for your hands.”

  The world narrowed to Morgan’s gray eyes and his body pressing into hers. Her heart surged into her throat at his look’s fierceness.

  Silence lay between them for an instant as he stared into her eyes. She knew with complete and utter certainty that he would do everything he had said and more—and that she would respond as he had foretold. Her body began to open and heat in welcome for him.

  Sound beat against the windows: horses were gathering less than a mile away.

  Morgan’s head jerked up to listen. The hoofbeats turned, fading slightly. Was the cavalry going elsewhere or simply winding around the hill in order to cover both entrances?

  The sound of steel-shod horses and heavy military tack drummed through the closed windows, louder and louder. Cavalry horses and their riders were moving up the hill, at a trot, coming with purpose toward the Tyler house.

  Dear God, someone must have definitely told the Federal army that Morgan was staying here.

  Morgan sprang off the bed, but the shackle brought him up short. He spat a string of curses and began to rapidly fasten his trousers.

  Jessamyn shuddered. She should be glad they’d been interrupted but all her body wanted to do was pu
ll him back down on top of her and demand that he satisfy her immediately.

  Pulling her sleeves down over the telltale bruises on her wrists, she forced herself to leave the bed and fetch the key to Morgan’s shackles. She tossed it to him and yanked open the door. “Go out through the window. Your horse is in the Hutchinsons’ gardener’s shed.”

  His eyes flashed as he caught the key. “You really didn’t intend to keep me.”

  “Of course not,” she spat. Damn, that was a stupid comment. “God knows what they’ll do to Father if they catch you here. Go!”

  Aristotle burst in and began to strip the bed, always keeping an eye on Morgan.

  “We have unfinished business, Jessamyn,” Morgan snarled, pulling on his boots as fast as she threw them to him. “I still mean to take my revenge. One day, you’ll be the one lying in a bed under me, begging for more of my touch.”

  Her heart stopped beating. She’d enjoyed sharing a bed with him far too well.

  Aristotle came swiftly erect, a long thin knife in his hand, snarling like a waterfront dog.

  Jessamyn reached for her tattered pride and tossed her head up. “I wouldn’t marry you now if you crawled.”

  Morgan laughed. “Who mentioned marriage?” He disappeared without a trace, silently shutting the window behind him.

  Jessamyn buried her face in her hands for a moment, praying her stomach would drop out of her throat. She couldn’t follow Morgan out that window, no matter how much her blood heated at the thought. He was a reckless, dishonorable rogue who made her behave far too much like her mother.

  “Are you all right, Miss Jessamyn?” Aristotle asked gently. “Cassiopeia will stall those soldiers as long as she can and you know Socrates has made sure there’s no trace of that man’s horse. In another minute, I’ll have this place looking as it did when old Mrs. Tyler was here. You’ll be safe.”

  She nodded blindly, tears prickling behind her eyelids, and released her childhood dreams. “I’ll go down to see them now.”

  She went down the stairs heedlessly at first. The rooms’ emptiness tore at her heart, reminding her of just how much had been lost. Everything that spoke of family was gone—pictures, trinkets, even heavy pieces of furniture like her mother’s piano. All that remained was some gold in a St. Louis bank and the cash from Somerset Hall, scarcely enough to give Father a chance at living.

  But she still had to protect Father and the servants. If the Federals suspected she was lying, they’d arrest them all and even a single night in jail might kill Father.

  She stopped on the second floor, at her bedroom, and quickly changed her dress into an equally simple black one that lacked any telltale reminders of Morgan’s lust. She pinned a simple mourning brooch at her throat, a memento of her grandmother and family duty. Then she held her head high as she went to deal with the cavalry. She came down the final flight of stairs like a queen, her lip curling at how vehemently the Yankees were telling Cassiopeia it was her duty to allow them to search.

  Of course, the remarkable fact was that they hadn’t already burst into the house, sabers drawn, and burst every door in their eagerness to find anything remotely smacking of a Rebel spy.

  She glanced out the windows on the landing. Silhouetted against the blood-red sunset, all the sentries were still trampling the lawns and the gardens, circling the house in search of evidence. At least they weren’t baying like bloodhounds searching for an escaped prisoner.

  They’d been there almost ten minutes and Morgan must be well away by now. Why on earth were they being so restrained?

  She tilted her chin a little higher and came down the stairs into the foyer. The first things she saw were the headgear—those small, flat hats called kepis, so popular with the infantry. A handful of broad-brimmed hats, with curling plumes, marking cavalrymen. A glimpse of Cassiopeia’s turban, bobbing vigorously, as she insisted that the gentlemen sit down and have a nice cup of tea while they waited.

  Then she stopped, her hand resting on the banister. A top hat? What the devil was a civilian doing in this company?

  Its owner turned around and Charlie Jones, Mother’s disreputable nephew who’d been forbidden entry to this house years ago, looked up at her. His lips curled, like a cobra scenting the air. “Good evening, cousin.”

  Her body went cold. No explanation for his presence was pleasant. Her brain turned calm, working at twice its normal speed. He was obviously a friend of the troops so she didn’t want to start by antagonizing him. Very well, try the gracious hostess tactic first. She pasted a warm smile on her lips and hoped it extended to her eyes. “How do you do, cousin? Would you care for some tea?”

  She glided farther down the stairs, grateful Miss Ramsay, her English governess, had drilled her so long and hard. Ladylike manners were Miss Ramsay’s counterweight to Father’s encouragement of Jessamyn’s sharpshooting and horsemanship skills. Here good manners were a mask for fighting a deadly game, while the military watched them. What the devil was going on?

  “I need to talk to you.” He grabbed her elbow, his fingers biting deep.

  She drew herself up in a ladylike demand to be freed. “Charlie!”

  Several of the officers growled and clapped their hands to their sabers. “Mr. Jones! She may be a Rebel but she’s still a lady,” one of them snapped. “You will treat her as such.”

  Charlie gave her a look she remembered all too well from her earliest years, the promise of dire retribution once they were alone, and released her slowly. His voice was businesslike for the Federals, though. “My apologies, cousin. I moved too quickly in my enthusiasm to see you again.”

  She managed not to rub her elbow. Damn, Charlie had hurt her worse in that single instant than Morgan had, when he’d held her while she struggled. “I understand, Charlie.” And I’ll never be alone with you, if I have any choice.

  “Would you care to speak in the front drawing room?” she offered. It was the only room downstairs, other than the library, that still retained much of its furniture. Its huge double doors couldn’t be as easily closed as a single door. So he’d probably have to leave them open, thereby letting the officers watch—and keep offering her some form of protection.

  He agreed without any argument, which made her very uneasy. What was Charlie’s game? Did he have some idea Morgan had been here? But she kept her expression serene when she faced him, despite how hard she locked her knees under her skirts. “Yes, cousin?”

  He drew closer to her and spoke softly in a tone that the others couldn’t hear. If they were his friends, why was he keeping this secret? The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

  “I know you’re harboring a Rebel spy.”

  She spat the answer back at him, glad it was the truth. “No, we’re not.”

  His eyes narrowed. He was a young man who promised to be very handsome. But when he did that, he looked more like a pig. “I know Morgan Evans was in town.”

  She shrugged, praying her hammering pulse wouldn’t betray her. “Morgan Evans rides with General Forrest according to Aunt Sophonisba.”

  He slammed his fist against the marble fireplace. “Doesn’t matter if he’s here or not. If I swear out evidence against you and have my friends do the same, you and your father will spend time in jail.”

  “You know Father would never survive even one night in prison. How can you suggest doing something like that to him?”

  He smiled, happiness leaping into his eyes.

  Oh damn, she’d just given him a path to what he wanted, which was always money. But everyone knew Father was penniless.

  “Your father just sold Somerset Hall,” he whispered, coming even closer.

  She fought the urge to step back. Showing weakness to Charlie was never wise. “So?”

  “Give me the money and there’ll be nothing said about Rebel spies.”

  All the air whooshed out of her lungs, as if she’d been struck. How could he even suggest taking that money? “Pay you blackmail? With the gold for the surgeon w
ho might save Father’s life?”

  He nodded. “If you don’t pay me, he won’t live another week,” he pointed out callously.

  Jessamyn saw red, entirely forgetting to think matters through. “Why, you dirty rat! You make a rattlesnake look upright!”

  She slapped him hard and he immediately hit her back, sending her staggering against a sofa. The cavalrymen started forward in a clatter of belts and spurs, as Cassiopeia shrieked a Creole imprecation.

  Charlie reached for Jessamyn, clearly intending to land at least one more blow before he was stopped. She tried to scramble to her feet, tasting blood from a split lip.

  Suddenly a deep, harsh voice cut through the clamor. “What the devil is going on here?”

  Silence fell as everyone turned to stare at the man standing in the doorway. He was tall, a few inches shorter than Morgan but slightly stockier, with dark red hair, albeit brighter than Morgan’s. He wore a Union Army’s lieutenant colonel’s uniform, a saber hanging ready at his side. A black eye patch covered one eye with a white bandage underneath, while the red streaks of healing wounds distorted the cheek underneath. Jessamyn hadn’t seen him since the fall of 1860, before the War broke out, but she recognized him immediately. All in all, he looked like heaven on earth to her.

  “Cyrus!” she cried and bolted for him. “Oh, Cyrus!” She buried her face against his chest and his arms promptly wrapped around her. She gulped for air, taking comfort from the one man—other than her father—who’d always been totally trustworthy.

  “Cousin Jessamyn,” Charlie began silkily.

  She shuddered. “He thinks we’re harboring spies.”

  Cyrus snorted, the sound neatly expressing a very low opinion of Charlie. “Gentlemen, I’m very sorry you’ve had a long ride up here today for nothing. I can assure you that my cousin and her family will no longer do anything to weaken the Union. In fact, I’ve come to take them back to New York with me.”

  Jessamyn could have wept for joy to hear him claim her as kissing kin.

  One of the soldiers muttered under his breath before speaking up, loud and clear. “My deepest apologies, sir, for distressing your family. Please believe that if I’d known they were related to you, I would never have ordered a patrol to come here.” He cast a furious look at Charlie. “We’ll leave now, sir.”