Maggie drew a deep breath. “If you’ll just drive me to the inn, and give back my ticket to travel on the omnibus—”
Reeve shook his head. “Loretta will be leaving, not you.”
Maggie lifted her chin another jot. “You misunderstand, Mr. McKenna. The decision has already been made, and if you won’t take me to the Parramatta Inn in your carriage, I shall walk.”
“In this rain? You must be out of your mind!”
Maggie was not out of her mind. She knew when she’d made a mistake, and she knew how to correct it. She left the parlor, and found her cloak and her reticule in the entryway. Draping the cloak around her shoulders and clasping the reticule in one hand, she opened the front door, crossed the porch, and walked out into the rain.
Chapter 10
THE WIND LASHED MAGGIE’S SKIRTS TO HER ANKLES, making her cloak flow out behind her, and the rain nearly blinded her, though it felt warm as bathwater against her skin. She paused at the foot of Reeve McKenna’s front walk, trying to remember whether the Parramatta Inn lay to the east or to the west.
She was still pondering this dilemma, her lower lip caught between her teeth, when Reeve suddenly appeared in front of her, grasping both her shoulders in his hands. She was not surprised, nor was she angry. Maggie was merely numb.
Reeve’s dark hair was dripping, his shirt so wet that Maggie could see through it. He shouted to be heard over the pounding rain, giving her small, periodic shakes. “Do you want to catch your death, you little idiot?!”
Maggie raised her chin. Her hair clung to her head like a sodden cap, and the rain was deafening, making craters in the deep puddles that lay all around. A loamy, fertile scent filled her nostrils. “Let me go,” she said.
Reeve couldn’t possibly have heard her, but he reacted all the same. Without warning or ceremony he shifted his hands from Maggie’s shoulders to her waist and hoisted her off the ground and over his shoulder. A second later he was striding back toward the house.
Maggie was too stunned to do anything at first, but soon enough she was kicking and struggling and shrieking words she’d learned years before from the circus people. None of her efforts brought anything more than a smart slap to her bottom as Reeve carried her back into the entryway and then the parlor. There, before the fire, he set her on her feet and summarily began removing her clothes.
Maggie tried to fight, but it was hopeless. Every attempt to scratch, slap, or kick was dodged or fended off, and her screams of fury were trapped in her throat.
Finally, when only her camisole, drawers, and shoes remained to her, Reeve clasped Maggie’s chin in one hand and caught her wrists together behind her back with the other. “Enough,” he said in a warning rasp, and Maggie went still.
“What a perfectly charming scene!” chimed a woman’s voice from somewhere beyond the mountainlike barrier of Reeve’s massive shoulders.
Loretta. Maggie wanted to die, knowing that that woman was witnessing her humiliation. She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to brace herself for the moments to come. A woolen throw of some sort was draped around her, and Maggie looked up into Reeve’s face and saw understanding there.
He turned to face his mistress, his towering frame blocking Maggie’s view of the woman, and asked cordially, “Are you ready to leave for the inn, Loretta?”
Loretta’s laughter had a sharp edge. “And leave this poor child here, unchaperoned? Why, Reeve, darling, that would be unthinkable!”
Reeve’s voice was taut; Maggie peered around one of his arms, glad that she couldn’t see his face. “No need,” he said succinctly. “Kala is here, after all.”
Loretta was wearing a floaty blue dress trimmed at bodice and hem with the softest of feathers. Her hair, gleaming like ebony in the firelight, hung freely to her waist, giving her the look of a beautiful witch. Involuntarily, Maggie shivered.
“Kala!” hooted the woman scorned, her hands on her hips now, her gaze searing Maggie as she argued with Reeve. “That Aboriginal woman? Good Lord, Reeve, you can’t be serious! She could never be a proper chaperon and you know it!”
“Are you going to go willingly,” Reeve asked in a dangerously charitable tone, “or do I have to carry you?”
A flush climbed from Loretta’s magnificent bosom to her hairline. “You really are unreasonable.”
Maggie couldn’t be sure, of course, but some sixth sense told her that while Reeve was smiling at Loretta, the smile was cold and even cruel. “Yes,” he answered.
Loretta subsided, her lower lip thrust out in a subtle pout, her arms folded across her chest. She’d lost, temporarily, and she knew it.
Maggie was gloating a little, inwardly at least, and so she was startled when Reeve suddenly rounded on her, his index finger waggling an inch from the tip of her nose. “You try leaving here while I’m gone, Yank,” he warned ominously, “and I’ll take you across my knee. Is that clear?”
Maggie swallowed. It was clear, if totally unreasonable and unfair, and she had no choice but to nod.
“Good,” Reeve said brusquely, and he strode over to Loretta, caught her by one arm, and propelled her up the stairs.
Huddled in the woolen throw, Maggie made an exasperated sound in her throat and sank to her knees on the stone hearth, staring into the leaping flames of the fire. She heard the rattle of dishes on a tray and looked up to see that Kala had brought her another pot of tea, along with several sugar cakes.
Resigned, Maggie toddled over to the low table in front of the settee, the blanket still wrapped around her, and poured herself a cup of tea. She was just sinking her teeth into one of the sugar cakes when Reeve and Loretta came down the stairs again.
Apparently Reeve did not plan to leave Loretta alone with Maggie while he hitched up his carriage, for he went toward the rear of the house, dragging the warmly cloaked and rigid woman along with him.
Disconsolately, Maggie consumed the rest of her sugar cake and then choked down some tea. Thus fortified, she went up the stairs, meaning to crawl back into that bed where she’d napped earlier to try to forget what a mare’s nest she’d gotten herself into.
Kala was standing in the hallway when Maggie reached the second floor, and she beckoned. Maggie went toward her questioningly, clutching the blanket around her, beginning to shiver now that she was far from the fire.
Kala indicated the doorway behind her and Maggie stepped through to find a steaming, scented bath waiting. There were fluffy towels stacked on a low shelf within reach of the marble tub, and fresh soap had been set out.
Maggie glanced gratefully at Kala, who smiled and slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Cold, tired, and overwrought, Maggie found that bath irresistible, even though she knew that she should not avail herself of any of the treacherous comforts of Reeve McKenna’s house. What she should do, in fact, was put on whatever dry clothes she could find and make her way to the inn, rain or no rain. But the pull of that hot, aromatic water was almost mystical; Maggie could not resist it.
She let the blanket fall to the floor, awkwardly removed her shoes and the sodden stockings beneath, and peeled away her clammy camisole and drawers. She was just sinking into the glorious luxury of her bath when the door opened again.
Gasping, braced for a confrontation with her host, Maggie sat rigidly upright in the luscious water, her arms covering her breasts.
But her visitor was only Kala, bringing a single delicate crystal glass on a small tray. Some deep purple liquid sparkled in the tiny goblet, promising sweetness and warmth.
Maggie settled back in the spacious tub, thanked Kala as she set the tray down within reach, and lunged forward to clasp the glass the moment the woman was gone.
The drink was a cordial of some sort, tasting of grapes and sugar. Each delicate sip deepened Maggie’s state of languor until she was yawning, her body so fluid as to seem a part of the lulling, sweet-smelling water.
Exhausted by the rigors of taking Loretta somewhere she hadn’t wanted to go,
specifically the Parramatta Inn, wet and cold and annoyed, Reeve made his way up the stairs, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. By the time he reached the door of the bathroom, he was down to his trousers. His boots and shirt and socks were strung out in a trail on the hallway floor.
Maggie was sleeping in the bathtub, her insouciant little nose barely an inch above the water. Reeve drew in a ragged breath and sank back against the door, the sane, reasonable part of him battling another, less civilized one. “Maggie?”
She stirred, stretching her arms high above her head and giving Reeve an enticing view of her full pink-tipped breasts. He groaned inwardly and closed his eyes, but the sweet image followed him, made the wanting of Maggie Chamberlin a grinding ache.
Just then Maggie opened sleepy gray eyes and, of all things, she smiled and purred his name.
Reeve gaped, this being the last reaction he’d expected from this kicking, clawing little hellcat, but he understood when he caught sight of the empty glass perched on the side of the tub.
The tenderness that filled him displaced his passion, at least temporarily. One cordial wouldn’t have affected a more sophisticated woman, but it had rendered Maggie helpless. He laughed low in his throat, and approached the tub.
Catching Maggie under both arms, he lifted her to her feet and held her against his bare chest with one arm while he reached for a towel with his free hand. She giggled, her head lolling against his shoulder, as he wrapped the towel around her and gently lifted her into his arms.
In her bedroom he set her down on the edge of the bed, intending to unpin her hair and ruffle it partially dry with the towel, but she fell over the moment he let go of her, giggling again, one breast escaping its covering to taunt Reeve with its sweet, inviting peak.
He suppressed an urge to bend and touch that straining morsel with his tongue, laughed despite the fact that he was in more pain than he ever remembered suffering, and hauled Maggie back to a sitting position. Her head sagged against his middle while he pulled the pins from her hair, and a searing jolt of need went through him, stiffening both his manhood and his resolve to do the decent thing.
Awkwardly, Reeve dried Maggie’s flowing hair as best he could, then he tucked her under the covers and reached out to extinguish the lamp Kala had left burning on the bedside table.
Maggie made a crooning sound and thrust both hands up onto the pillow, causing her breasts to bob free of the blankets and torment Reeve anew. He couldn’t resist taking them full in his hands and caressing them for a moment before gently replacing the blankets.
Her lashes thick on her cheeks, Maggie wriggled and gave a regretful whimper, her arms outstretched to Reeve even though she wasn’t fully awake. In anguish Reeve put out the kerosene lamp and left the room.
There was a burning, pulsing ache deep within Maggie’s middle, finally driving her to a half-wakefulness. She sat up in bed.
Had she only dreamed that there was a storm? Silvery moonlight flowed in through a nearby window, pooling around her. She stretched her arms and yawned, and then her hands came tentatively to her breasts. She cupped the warm, tingling mounds in her palms for a moment, craving Reeve, offering them up to him even though he was not there.
Scrambling out of bed, wrapping the quilt around her, Maggie paced. The friction of her pacing made the throbbing in her middle worse, so she stopped near the door and opened it.
The hallway was quiet and, of course, empty. Still half besotted from the cordial, Maggie found herself creeping out of her room.
She was sure she hadn’t made a sound but, all the same, a door near the bathroom opened with a soft suddenness, and she heard Reeve whisper hoarsely, “Maggie?”
Boldly, Maggie followed the whisper, and when she reached Reeve’s doorway, she simply stood there, looking up at him.
“Go back to your room,” he said softly, desperately.
Maggie shook her head and somehow the quilt slipped away from her shoulders, landing in a moon-washed heap at her feet.
Reeve’s eyes swept over her naked curves with a reluctant hunger, as though they were rebelling against the orders of his mind. “Oh, God,” he breathed, and then he caught hold of Maggie’s hand and pulled her into his room, dragging the disgarded quilt in as an afterthought.
“Hello,” she said.
“You’re drunk,” Reeve responded, trying to keep his distance. He was wearing nothing but the smattering of moonlight slipping in through the windows, and Maggie watched in sleepy wonder as he grew to a splendid stiffness under her gaze.
Feeling a half-witted sort of marvel at her own audacity, even as she was driven forward by some imp within her, Maggie took a step closer to Reeve. He was standing beside his bed and, for just a moment, he looked as though he might be poised to run.
“Maggie, in the name of heaven,” he pleaded in a harsh voice, “go back to your room.”
Maggie stayed where she was, frozen in place by the splendor of him.
Reeve’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out and took something from the bedside table. There was the distinctive sound and scent of a match being struck, and light flared on the planes of his face as he lit a cheroot and drew deeply of the smoke. The heat of his gaze warmed Maggie, thawed her stricken muscles. Without thinking, she lifted her hands to her breasts again because they felt sore and heavy.
At that moment Reeve snuffed out the cheroot he’d just lit and, with a primitive groan, strode across the room to Maggie. He seemed enraged as he took her waist in his hands, lifted her off the floor, and hurled her backward onto his bed.
She lay sprawled on the covers, her eyes wide, her heart hammering at her rib cage. She couldn’t have spoken if all the world had hung in the balance.
“Did that sober you up?” Reeve demanded, glaring down at her.
Maggie was excited. She smiled, knowing that she had won a battle it would have been more advisable to lose. Deliberately, she raised her arms above her head and indulged in a languorous, kittenlike stretch.
Reeve swore, propelled to her by some force he could no longer resist. His hands brushed the length of her thighs, parting them, setting them a-quiver. His jawline was hard with a helpless anger, and his fingers gently caressed the down at the joining of her legs.
Maggie moaned and tossed her head from side to side, already senseless with the pleasure he wrought.
Kneeling beside her on the bed now, Reeve continued his rhythmic plundering even as he bent his head to touch the peak of her breast with his tongue. She arched convulsively, making a soft whimpering sound in her throat.
“Oh, this is just the beginning, Yank,” Reeve promised with gruff devoutness, his breath warm on the skin of her breast. “Just the beginning. I’ll teach you to tempt me.”
With that he took Maggie’s swollen nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue and the gentle scraping of his teeth. And still he caressed the rosebud that bloomed beneath his fingers, first softly, then with a roughness that made Maggie thrust her legs farther and farther apart.
“You’re a hardheaded little wench,” Reeve said between tonguings of her breast, “but you’ll have learned your lesson by the time I’m through with you.”
Maggie’s hands tangled in Reeve’s hair, and she shivered as his mouth coursed downward over her stomach slowly, so slowly. But his greed was sudden and startling and Maggie cried out with pleasure as his fingers left her totally vulnerable to the attentions of his mouth.
“Lesson—number—one,” he breathed between furtive nibbles that set Maggie’s hips twisting and dragged a crooning whine from her throat. No matter how she moved, she could not escape the sweet torment he induced.
Something erupted within Maggie like a volcano, and her response was so lusty that Reeve clamped one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries of release. Shivering and sated, she expected him to leave her, but he didn’t. Soon another tumult was building inside her, terrifying heat and motion.
Three times he drove her to shattering explosio
n, and she was exhausted when he finally left her, but the respite was brief. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, and then he turned onto his back and pulled Maggie after him, sliding her upward until he had ready access to her breasts.
As he sucked, Maggie writhed against him in involuntary pleasure, never knowing how she was sealing her fate.
She was wild with need and with a desire to repay him, and that gave her the strength to break free, to slide down until she was kneeling on the floor. Instinctively, Maggie guessed what the most effective vengeance would be, and the cry Reeve gave, the tangling of his fingers in her hair, proved that she’d been right.
Maggie pleasured him until, with a rumbling growl, he suddenly pulled her back onto the bed. She landed astraddle of him, his manhood prodding at her swelling dampness, seeking entrance. Maggie took him in with one fierce motion of her hips, flinging back her head in glorious submission as his hands closed over her breasts.
Reeve’s hips began to rise and fall beneath Maggie, and with each withdrawal she suffered the profoundest despair, with each deep, returning thrust, she knew undiluted joy. This fierce parrying went on for a long time, until both Reeve and Maggie were groaning in the singular delirium that is love.
Their crises were simultaneous, sundering their souls from their bodies, bonding them together into one entity. Inevitably, though, they became two people again, and even that separation was sweet.
Maggie was so weak that even after her breathing had returned to normal, even after her body had ceased its shuddering, she couldn’t trust her legs to carry her back to her own bed. She snuggled close to Reeve and he held her, his hand moving tenderly up and down her back until she slept.
Bright sunlight glared through Maggie’s lids, forcing her to wake up. She opened her eyes to find Reeve lying beside her, watching her with a sober expression that instantly turned to a teasing amusement.
It was then that Maggie remembered what a wanton she’d been, and she blushed, the color rolling up her body from the tips of her toes to finally lap at her forehead like a tide. “It was the cordial,” she protested lamely.
Moonfire Page 14