Moonfire

by Linda Lael Miller

  Perhaps because he had a bent for the traditional—or maybe because he wanted to remind the lookers-on, most notably Duncan, that Maggie was his wife—Reeve suddenly swept her up into his arms and carried her up the porch steps, Elisabeth scrambling happily at his heels. He paused at the door to give Maggie a quick kiss, and then he carried her over the threshold.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. McKenna,” he said gruffly. Happy tears filled Maggie’s eyes, for there had been so many times when she’d thought this occasion would never come. Her hand lingered on the nape of Reeve’s neck even after he’d set her carefully on her feet. “There were moments,” she confessed, “when I thought that if anybody carried anybody over a threshold, it would be me toting you.”

  Reeve laughed and gave her a surreptitious swat on the bottom, and then Maggie took her first look around her. The house was spacious and rustic, lacking the marbled elegance of the place in Sydney, and Maggie loved it on sight. There was an enormous fieldstone fireplace, and from the dining room she could see the ocean. The kitchen was in a building separate from the main house, reached by a footpath. There were, of course, no gaslights and certainly no indoor plumbing fixtures.

  Seven Sisters was an outpost of sorts, but that didn’t dull its appeal to its new mistress. Maggie had a real home for the first time in her life, and that made her throat tighten with emotion.

  In the master bedroom upstairs she knelt on a window seat, looking out over the sugar cane and the sparkling sea. She felt Reeve’s hands on her shoulders and his breath on the nape of her neck as he bent to kiss that sensitive place.

  Sighing with contentment, Maggie lifted her hands to cover Reeve’s. “I feel as though all my life has been a road, leading here, to Seven Sisters,” she said softly.

  “I feel the same way,” Reeve reflected, nibbling gently at the side of her neck. “But just since I carried you over the threshold, Mrs. McKenna.”

  Maggie turned, looking up into Reeve’s face with tear-bright eyes. “I want our child to be born right here, in this room.”

  “Aye.” Reeve chuckled, lifting her chin for his kiss. “And is there a better place to conceive a dozen more?”

  The kiss sent a shiver of desire through Maggie, and she mentally counted the hours until the night. Reeve’s hands cupped her bottom, pressing her close to him and, after circling her tingling lips once with the tip of his tongue, Reeve added in a throaty whisper, “I’ll make you very glad you married me, Yank.”

  Maggie slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m already glad of that,” she replied softly. And then she arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “In many ways, tonight will be our wedding night.”

  Reeve was about to kiss Maggie again when someone cleared her throat. Startled, Mr. and Mrs. McKenna remembered that they were not alone and turned to see a flushed Eleanor standing in the doorway.

  “There’s a meal ready,” she said with unparalleled timidity, “if you’d care to join us.”

  Maggie was hungry, though she would have preferred to be alone with Reeve for the rest of the day, and she took her bewildered husband’s hand and led him toward the door.

  The meal consisted of roasted poultry of some sort, as well as potatoes and peas, and scones served with jam and fresh cream. Maggie was forced to compliment Eleanor on her cooking. She couldn’t help noticing that both Duncan and Reeve were quick to agree.

  Once they’d eaten, Reeve and Duncan left the dining room, by some tacit agreement, to have a private discussion. Cora announced that Miss Elisabeth needed a nap, as did her nanny, and hauled her protesting charge upstairs. That left Maggie with Eleanor, and, in an effort to be gracious, she helped clear the table.

  For all that, the moment was awkward.

  “You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Eleanor said remotely as she scraped plates and stacked them. “You’re the mistress of the house, after all, and you haven’t been well.”

  Maggie felt an unexpected sympathy for the woman, and, holding a bowl of leftover potatoes in one hand and the platter the scones had been on in the other, she asked, “Eleanor, why do you want to be here so badly that you’d reduce yourself to a servant’s status?”

  Eleanor met Maggie’s gaze for the first time since the meal had ended, and there were tears sparkling in her eyes. Maggie, who would never have been able to imagine this formidable woman crying, was taken aback. “Sometimes,” she said, “we have to settle for what we can get, Mrs. McKenna.” Eleanor’s look sharpened. “And when you’re big with child and not quite so receptive to your husband’s attentions, I expect to get plenty.”

  Maggie was so stunned that her fingers went slack and the potato bowl dropped to the hardwood floor with a clatter. “You want to be Reeve’s mistress?” she marveled.

  Eleanor smiled and wiped away her tears. “Wives wear out rather rapidly in the bush,” she observed coolly. “I suspect the day will come when you’re glad to have your husband in my bed instead of yours.”

  Dazed by the woman’s gall, Maggie bent and picked up the bowl she’d dropped, setting it on the table with a thump. “Your confidence in your charms is quite amazing, Miss Kilgore,” she replied. “But even if Reeve should ever feel the need to take a mistress—and I assure you, I’ll do whatever I have to to prevent that—you’ll be far away from Seven Sisters. In fact, you may be leaving today.”

  Eleanor’s smile was firmly in place, and the brightness in her eyes now was spawned by determination, not tears. “Do you imagine for one moment, Mrs. McKenna, that your doting husband will send me away and allow you to endanger his child by scrubbing floors and cooking meals? If you do, you underestimate his devotion.”

  “Once I tell him what you’re planning—”

  Eleanor interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “Even if you do, and he goes into a towering rage and shows me the door—which is unlikely since there are few white women who would be willing to live so far out in the bush—I’ll have only to apply to Mr. Kirk for a position in his house. He’ll hire me, rest assured, and that may prove even more convenient for Mr. McKenna, since Mr. Kirk’s residence is less than a mile’s walk from this one. He’d be able to visit his mistress without flaunting her in his wife’s face.”

  Maggie knew that Eleanor’s threats carried weight; for the very reasons she’d stated, it was most unlikely that Reeve would send her away. She’d only have to lie if he were to confront her about her intentions, and Maggie, being the younger of the two women, would seem the jealous and unsophisticated bride. Reeve would believe that her pregnancy was causing her to imagine things.

  “You won’t have him,” Maggie vowed proudly, color throbbing in her cheeks, and then she turned and left the dining room.

  Reeve and Duncan were just coming out of the small study, and Maggie could see no indication of what they’d discussed in either of their faces. She was too upset to look beyond their expressions.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she announced somewhat petulantly, folding her arms.

  Duncan offered his hand to Reeve and, after a moment’s hesitation, Reeve took it. At any other time Maggie would have been curious about what they were agreeing to between themselves. She turned and set out for the back of the house.

  Reeve caught up to her as she was starting through the cane field, moving steadily toward the sea, which called to her with a low, soothing voice.

  “There are snakes out here,” he commented, falling into step beside her.

  The cane rustled and raised a sugary smell as Maggie marched onward. “And I was wondering what to give Eleanor for Christmas,” she muttered sarcastically.

  Reeve grasped Maggie’s arm at the elbow and stopped her progress, spinning her around so that she came bumping up against his chest. He laughed and entangled his fingers in her falling-down hair. “What is it that’s got you in such a fuss, Maggie?” he demanded with a grin.

  Maggie considered telling him, but she could guess what would happen if she did. Reeve would either think that she was exaggerati
ng or he would send Eleanor on her way—to Duncan’s nearby house. “Are there really snakes here?” she asked, hedging.

  Reeve nodded, and, except for his eyes, which were still dancing, his expression was serious. “Don’t be wandering off on your own again, Maggie. It isn’t safe.”

  Unable to bear a reprimand then, Maggie bit her lower lip and fought back tears. “Sometimes I don’t think there’s anyplace in the world that’s safe,” she said sadly.

  Reeve touched her nose and his voice was gentle and hoarse with concern. “Yank, what is it? What’s troubling you?”

  Maggie brightened because she had to; she meant to fight for this man she loved with every resource that she possessed. She smiled and twisted her hips mischievously against Reeve’s, then went bounding through the towering sugar cane at a dead run, her laughter ringing out like music behind her.

  “Come back here!” Reeve yelled furiously. “I wasn’t kidding about those snakes!”

  Maggie ran until she reached the edge of the cane field; there, she stopped, breathless. The sea was spread out before her in all its splendor, lapping, crystal-blue, at the white sands. “Thunderation,” she whispered, stricken by the beauty of the place.

  Then, hearing Reeve storming through the cane behind her, Maggie skidded down the short hillside to the beach and turned to watch her husband’s descent, her hands on her hips, her face shining with mischief. At that magical moment it was as though there were no Eleanors in the world, and no Lorettas; Maggie had found her safe place.

  “I ought to turn you across my knee!” Reeve raged, his nose an inch from Maggie’s.

  “But you won’t,” she chimed, her hands caught together behind her back, “because I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re right,” Reeve confessed, looking both exasperated and disappointed. He ran one hand through his dark hair and muttered a curse word, and Maggie laughed, taking his muscular arms in her hands.

  “This is paradise!” she crowed, catching Reeve’s hand in hers and dragging him toward what appeared to be a cove, sheltered by rocks and towering trees, just down the beach.

  Grudgingly, he smiled at her. “Maggie,” he said, stopping her and turning her in his arms so that she was looking up at him. “I love you.”

  Maggie’s throat swelled with emotion and she swallowed. “Really, Reeve? Do you really love me?”

  He nodded, his hands strong on her shoulders. She took one of them and placed it flush with her stomach.

  “When I’m big and very fat, will you still want me?” she asked timidly.

  “More than ever,” he answered, and then he was ushering her down the beach, through a gap in the rocks and into the cove Maggie had suspected was there. It was the Garden of Eden, shut off from the rest of the world; exotic flowers of the richest purples and crimsons nodded from the bushes on the hillside behind it, and parrots of every color squawked in the trees.

  Maggie plopped down in the snow-white sand and began unlacing her shoes. “Oh, Reeve,” she breathed, awed, “it’s so beautiful here.”

  He dropped to his haunches beside her and, with slow, sensuous motions of his hands, removed both her shoes, then rolled down her stockings and tossed them away.

  Maggie’s heart was hammering and her breath had already quickened to a gasp; all her instincts bid her to lie back in the warm sand and let Reeve love her. She resisted those instincts because she wanted this time to last.

  Bolting to her feet, Maggie lifted her skirts and went splashing into the water up to her knees. Reeve hung back, his face suddenly taut with unpleasant memories, and some of Maggie’s joy faded away. She made her way slowly back toward him.

  “You have shadows in your eyes,” she said softly, placing one hand on each side of his face.

  He dragged her to him and held her close for a moment, his grip fierce, but after a few seconds he relaxed. His hands went to her hair, and he plucked away the last remaining pins, watching as her pale hair tumbled down around her shoulders and breasts in shining waves. “You can drive the shadows away, Maggie,” he said, his voice low and husky. “You and only you.”

  She began unbuttoning his shirt, and when she’d opened it to his muscle-ridged stomach, Maggie laid her hands to Reeve’s flesh, caressing him. He groaned as she toyed with his taut nipples.

  “Oh, God, Maggie,” he rasped, “I need you.”

  Maggie stepped closer, touching one button of flesh with the tip of her tongue and taking delight as Reeve shuddered with pleasure. She grew bolder then, kissing her way across his chest to the other nipple and tasting that as well. Beneath her hand, the muscles of his stomach tensed to a hardness as dense as granite. When she took hold of his belt buckle, he gently displaced her hand and opened it for her.

  They drifted downward until they were kneeling in the sand, and Maggie reached inside Reeve’s trousers to catch him gently in her hand. He moaned and thrust back his head as she freed his straining magnificence to the air and the darting touch of her tongue.

  “Maggie,” he grated. “Oh, Maggie—”

  For long, sweet minutes Maggie McKenna pleasured her husband, and during that time he unfastened the buttons at the back of her cotton dress and slipped it from her shoulders. When Reeve could bear not another moment of the dizzying torment to which she subjected him, he raised her head with his hands and kissed her. She shivered as his tongue searched the warm moistness of her mouth and his hands smoothed the dress downward to her waist. Having anticipated just such a moment since morning, Maggie had worn no camisole.

  He cupped the warm fullness of her breasts in his hands, chafing the nipples with his thumbs.

  Maggie had no memory of being lowered to the sand, but she felt its gritty heat against her bare back, and the sun became a dazzling illumination framing Reeve’s head. She made a throaty whimpering sound as he eased her dress down over her hips and thighs and then tossed it away. Upon discovering that she was wearing no drawers, he drew in his breath and then chortled raggedly. “You little vixen—you knew this was going to happen.”

  “Ummm,” Maggie crooned, closing her eyes as the warmth of the sun and of Reeve’s love washed over her in delicious waves. His hands stroked her thighs in whisper-soft touches and then, with a groan, he bent his head to her breast, circling the pulsing nipple with his tongue.

  Maggie’s entire body hummed with the sensations he was stirring inside her, and she clasped both hands behind Reeve’s head to hold him close while he sucked. In the trees the parrots screeched and the waves washed in and out on the shore, setting a primal rhythm for Maggie and Reeve to follow.

  Finally, with a lusty motion of his body, Reeve rolled onto his back, holding Maggie above him, and he caught her untended breast in his mouth, nibbling at its peak with his lips. Still, driven by some instinct older than the sand beneath them, she pulled free of Reeve’s mouth and mounted him. Driven to a delirium of need himself, he lunged inside her in one powerful, heated stroke.

  Though Maggie wanted to race toward the dizzying finish that she knew would come, Reeve controlled not only his own desperation, but hers too. Grasping her hips in inescapable hands, he set her pace to match his slow, lingering thrusts.

  Maggie was trembling as each stroke of his manhood tantalized her at excruciating leisure but refused to gratify. “Oh, Reeve—I beg of you—I need you so much—”

  Still, he moved at the same even tempo, granting her no quarter. He knew, as Maggie did, that the final moments of their loving would be all the more gratifying for the long delay.

  Maggie grew fevered as she was trained to the exact motions that Reeve wanted of her. Her nails delved into the hard flesh of his shoulders as he moved beneath her, driving her inexorably toward sweet madness. As the passion became too piercing and too intense to be borne, she began to toss her head back and forth wildly, and Reeve’s hands tightened on her hips as she tried to accelerate the pace and wrest his control from him.

  Finally, Maggie’s whole being convulsed as her body b
uckled in one spasm of elation after another. On and on the glorious tumult went, until Maggie sagged, exhausted, to Reeve’s chest.

  He was approaching his own pinnacle, and, in a frantic shift of his body, he set her beneath him and lunged into her depths. Reeve’s torment ended with a great shuddering in his body and a rush of senseless pleas from his mouth, and then he fell to lie, gasping for breath, beside Maggie in the sand.

  She let her hand rest on his quivering, granitelike belly, and her head found its way unerringly to his shoulder.

  Perhaps because her emotions were so raw, and so close to the surface, Maggie remembered that Eleanor planned to take this from her and she began to cry. Several moments had passed before Reeve felt her tears against the flesh of his shoulder and raised himself to look down into her face.

  “Tell me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.

  “I never want to lose you,” Maggie wept, shaking her head against the sand. “Never. Oh, Reeve—I love you so much!”

  Tenderly, Reeve brushed tangled strands of golden hair back from her face. “And I love you,” he said, his breath warm where it touched her lips. “Maggie, don’t cry.”

  She trembled. “You’ll never take a mistress?” she whispered, and if she was begging, she didn’t care. She touched the charm dangling from his strong neck with the tip of her finger. “Promise me, Reeve, that you’ll never betray me.”

  He kissed her lingeringly, and then said, “I believe I’ve already made that promise, Yank. Before a priest, if I remember correctly.”

  Tears were slipping through the sand that coated Maggie’s face with a fine layer of grit. “S-someone told me that you’d t-take a mistress when I get f-fat and—”

  “Whoever told you that is wrong, Maggie.”

  She sniffed. “I couldn’t bear it, Reeve, if I had to share you. I kn-know some women can look the other way when their husbands stray, but I c-couldn’t.”