Then as quick as her smile came, it faded. Her own loneliness crept up to surround her. Braiton gave her everything she could need or want, everything except love. Lost and empty inside she gulped, forcing back the hot tears of frustration scalding her eyes.
She shivered, snuggling beneath the quilt and praying despair would leave her heart and Braiton would return.
Chapter Sixteen
The tavern reeked of stale smoke and whiskey. Braiton followed Morgan Wade to a table in the corner of the dingy room. Sprawling his long legs to one side, Lord Wade sat back in his chair and lit his pipe.
“Aye, Lord Shannon,” Morgan said between puffs. “I am purely distraught over the rising prices of your goods. French wines are costly, I agree. I also realize Ireland must import all her wine, but this isn’t the case in England. We don’t have to go through your channels, pay your high prices.” Morgan sat forward. “I haven’t wanted to deal directly with the French, my reasons being my reasons, but now you’ve grown too greedy, Lord Shannon.”
He knew the damage Morgan could bring to his business if he were left unsatisfied. An import king, Lord Wade held great power amongst the other importers and exporters. Should he decide to pull his accounts, it stood to reason most others would follow.
The servant girl brought them each a whiskey and placed it on the table. He remained silent until she left, figuring a way to regain Morgan’s trust. He took an audible breath.
“In all honesty, my lord, I know of no price increase. I’ve dealt fairly with you, as I do with all my clients. In truth, I have kept my fees the same.”
“That is a lie, sir,” Morgan accused, banging his fist upon the table. The glasses filled with whiskey jarred, the honey-colored liquid spilling over the rim. “And I have with me the receipts to prove my case.”
He squared his shoulders. “I should like to examine those receipts, my lord, since I’m being unjustly accused.”
Morgan downed his drink then pulled a wad of crumpled papers from his vest pocket and threw them across the table. “I unjustly accuse no man, Lord Shannon.”
He finished off his own drink then smoothed out the wrinkles and studied the receipts, anger swelling in his chest as he read each one. The handwriting scrawled across the paper wasn’t that of his foreman and the price listed beside each item was an outrageous sum.
“I assure you, my lord, these prices are not correct.”
“You’re bloody hell right, they’re not correct,” Lord Wade snapped. “And unless something is done to correct them, I shall be forced to take my business elsewhere.” He motioned for the waitress to bring them another round of whiskey.
“When I return to Limerick, I’ll go over my books and the dealings pertaining to the goods you purchased.”
Again the servant girl set down the drinks, her round, green eyes lingering on his. She cast him a demure smile. “Anythin’ more I can be bringin’ ye, me lord.”
“Nay, lass,” he mumbled, breaking eye contact.
Lord Wade dismissed the woman with a slight wave of his hand. “That’ll be all for now.” He chuckled. “It appears she’s got an eye for you, my lord.”
He frowned, picking up the second drink and taking a mouthful. “I am hardly interested, my own wife is quite enough woman for me to handle.”
Morgan’s laugh grew hardier. “Aye, that she is…quite enchanting. You’re a lucky man, Shannon. If I had that waiting for me at home, I’d find it hard to ever leave.”
His personal business was his own, and he’d discuss it with no one. Combing a hand through his hair, he returned to the subject at hand. “I’ll get to the bottom of this error, you have my word.”
Morgan arched a brow. “All well and good to say, my lord, but what guarantee do I have you’ll keep your word?”
He pulled a leather purse from his jacket pocket. “I will, at this very moment, square with you the overcharges from the readies of my personal funds. This should prove to you I conduct my business dealings in good faith.” He searched Lord Wade’s face. “Do you accept my offer, sir?”
“Aye, I do, Lord Shannon.”
He sighed with relief and counted out payment in full.
Morgan called out to the waitress. “Bring us the entire bottle, lass.” Smiling, he turned to Braiton. “Now we drink, my lord, and have us a hearty evening.” Once the bottle was set upon the table, Morgan filled both of their glasses. “The night is young, and the whiskey flows plentiful to our table.”
He returned the smile and obliged, not wishing to offend Lord Wade now that he regained his good graces. To refuse such hospitality would be a grave mistake. He drained each glass filled before him until his eyes blurred and the beat of his heart echoed in his ears. All resolve faded, and he laughed and enjoyed himself for the rest of the evening.
He didn’t remember leaving the tavern or getting into the bian waiting to take him back to Glenview. Morgan Wade’s assessment of Raven stuck in his thoughts. She waited for him now in bed. He laid his head back against the leather seat, and a deep longing for her coursed through his being. He envisioned her luscious mouth and pouting lips. They invited kisses and was his for the asking. ’Twas a perfect right he had to taste every part of her silky, bronzed flesh. His loins grew thick beneath the material of his breeches, wishing now to inhale her scent, feel the warmth of her flesh against his.
When the bian stopped in front of the O’Neill mansion, he stumbled up the walkway and to his room. Bracing himself against the wall, he knocked on the door.
“Raven, ’tis your husband. Open the door, lass, so I may behold you.” He heard the patter of her bare feet on the hardwood floor, then the bolt released and the door opened. He smiled, his gaze roaming the length of her.
“Ah, there you are, m’annachd, my best beloved…especially so when you’re naked and free beneath your dresses,” he slurred.
Her face turned a deep shade of crimson. “Oh, hush, before you wake the entire household.” She reached for his hand and pulled him into the room, bolting the door behind them.
He leaned against the wall, the room spun, and he cleared his throat.
She frowned. “You are full of spirits.”
He smiled. He thought he did anyway. At this point he couldn’t really feel his mouth. “Aye, lass, I am.” He reached over and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Your beauty leaves me breathless, mo ghradh, my dear.”
“What you need is sleep, Braiton,” she said, helping him over to the bed.
His body burned with desire. “Nay, my lady, what I need is you.”
“Let me remove your jacket,” she offered, slipping the coat off his shoulders and removing it from each arm. “And your boots,” she said, kneeling at his feet to pull them off, one at a time, along with his stockings.
“Raven, look up at me,” he whispered.
She raised her gaze to meet his. “It is time for you to sleep.” She stood. “I have seen what drinking the fire water can do to a man.”
He chuckled and reached for her hand. “Fire water, you say?”
She nodded. “It is what my people call the white man’s drink.”
He drew her close. “Aye, ’tis rightfully named, for a fire burns in me, gu leoir, plenty enough, for you.”
“Braiton…”
“Nay, monighean, my lass, say not a word,” he interrupted, placing a finger over her lips. “At this moment all I wish to do is taste your sweetness.” He slipped the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and pulled the garment down to her waist.
She gasped, the blush coloring her cheeks, and shielded her breasts with her hands.
He circled each of her wrists with his fingers, bringing her hands to her sides. “Nay, mo ghradh, don’t hide now from me.” He searched her face. “I’m a duine, a gentleman, and I’ll not take from you, compromise you as the other did, but ask instead.” Hungry desire spiraled through him. “Will you yield on this night to me, Raven?”
Raven’s blood pounde
d in her brain, leapt from her heart, and made her knees tremble. With the tip of her tongue, she moistened her dry lips. “Yes,” was her breathless response, and the only one he needed before he leaned in to suckle her breasts. His tongue teased and played with each hard peak. His lips left a trail of warmth in their path. She threw her head back, her entire being alive and aroused. Never did she known such pleasure existed. Everywhere he touched excited her flesh, set her deliciously on fire.
He pulled her down to meet him and captured her mouth with a searing kiss. She tasted the sweetness of the whiskey on his tongue as it roamed the walls of her mouth. Her arms went up around his neck, and she leaned into him, his bulging loins pressed against her thigh.
“Raven, my Raven,” he whispered into her mouth. “I want you.” She pulled away, shocked at his declaration. But he drew her again into his strong embrace. “Nay, lass, don’t be frightened, I’ll not hurt you. I shall never hurt you,” he whispered more tenderly while he slipped her nightgown off her hips and caressed her belly. His touch was a golden wave of passion tingling through her. Slowly, his hands moved downward, skimming either side of her hips and resting at her thighs. “Will you accept my burning body within yours?”
“Yes,” again, all she could do was whisper, her flesh half ice, half flame.
She did not remember how their clothes ended up on the floor, or care how the two of them landed into bed. All she knew was how wonderful the tip of his finger circled her pulse of passion, teasing the tiny bud until it grew moist. Opening her thighs, his finger penetrated her, moving in and out. Passion piqued, she trembled, no longer able to disguise her body’s reaction. Groaning with pleasure her arousal exploded, ripples of ecstasy spreading gusts of desire to every part of her being.
He rolled on top of her, spreading her legs wider with his knees. She arched her back and met his fullness, offering herself to him, completely.
“Aye, lass, that’s the way now. ’Tis you who will let us soar together. ’Tis not like before. ’Tis not like before.”
It was not like before, when she was taken against her will on the reservation. Braiton had asked, and she wanted to give…and give…and give.
He entered her and moaned with pleasure. “You are so warm.” Placing both hands beneath her hips, he pulled her up to meet him.
He was fully inside of her now, and she tightened around him, making him call out her name in a throaty whisper. She moved in unison to his thrusts, the two rocking faster and faster. Hurtled beyond the point of return, she dug her nails into his shoulders.
He shattered within her, hot juices bursting forth from his hardened shaft. As he filled her, he kissed each of her eyes, her nose, then captured her mouth.
“Did I hurt you, mo nighean dubh, my black-haired lass?”
“No,” she whispered. His warm liquid trickled from her, leaving the inside of her thighs moist and sticky.
Spent, he rolled onto his back, his muscular chest rising and falling with each breath.
“Rest now,” she said. He reached for her and drew her close. She sought comfort from the warmth of his body, reaching over to stroke the dark hair covering his chest. Indian men did not allow hair to cover their flesh. They found it offensive, and so a ceremony was performed at the first sign of manhood to pluck and destroy hair from growing. She liked the way hair looked on Braiton. The mustache above his lip, the hair upon his chest and thighs, added to his perfect sculpted body. He was as well proportioned as any warrior in her tribe.
“Raven,” he groaned.
“I am here.” She kissed his neck. “Now rest,” she said again, closing her own eyes with contentment.
Together they drifted off to sleep.
****
A streak of sunlight found its way through the opening of the drapes adorning the veranda doors. She woke, dewy-eyed with the memory of the night before replaying in her mind. Her cheeks warmed with the thought of his fingers and lips teasing and caressing the most intimate parts of her body. He’d awakened and unleashed in her sensations she had no idea existed, taking her beyond her wildest dreams.
She listened to his heavy breathing, felt the beat of his heart beneath her palm, and wished she could start his day with a kiss. But he would not be as refreshed as she when he woke. The fire water had a way of making a body feel much worse than they did the night before. Perhaps it would be best not to disturb him.
She slid out of bed and tidied up the room, then performed her morning toilet at the wash basin. Donning a simple, deep purple dress with buttons at the front of the bodice, she brushed her hair till it shone and let it fall to her waist in a thick braid.
****
Slow, and with much pain, Braiton opened his eyes, vision blurred, his head pounded. There was no mistaking it; his head had been pummeled with a brick. He blinked his burning eyes into focus and groaned.
“Good morning, my shikaa. How does your head feel?”
He spotted her standing at the foot of the bed. She was dressed, looking radiant, and he was sure he would die. He groaned again and licked his dry lips. His mouth tasted like it was stuffed with cotton.
She moved to the side of the bed. “Ah, that bad?”
He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. Even the sound of her voice made him flinch.
He heard her make her way to the wash basin to wet a cloth. She returned to swab his face and neck, then place the compress over his eyes.
“I thank you, lass.” His own voice vibrated in his ears, and he swallowed hard the bile rising to choke him. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that much whiskey to drink.” He frowned. “Truth be told, right now I can’t even recall how I got back to Glenview.”
She sat at the edge of the bed. “Do you remember anything at all about last night?”
“Nay, not a thing,” he whispered. He raised the cloth to look at her. “Care to enlighten me?” Her hesitation worried him. “Sweet Mother of God, Raven. We didn’t, I didn’t compromise—”
“No, you did not compromise me.” It was not an out and out lie, Raven told herself. She stood, making her way to the veranda doors and pulled aside a corner of the drapes, gazing out across the lawn. His outburst had her thoughts traveling back to the night of the storm aboard The Sweet Maureen.
He was upset then—as he was now—that something had transpired between them. He'd made it very clear, there must be nothing to prevent the marriage from being annulled within a year’s time, or that either of them breaks the agreement made.
He sighed in relief. “Thank God.”
Suddenly the spacious bedchamber became very small, the walls closing in on her. She could no longer bear to even look at him, the closeness of last night dissolving like the cubes of sugar she dropped into tea. She fought the tears stinging the back of her throat and went to the door.
“I will get you a mug of coffee. It will help to relieve the pain from the fire water.”
“Fire water,” he repeated. “You called the whiskey that last night, didn’t you?”
She turned to look at him, his dark hair in disarray, eyes red-rimmed and glassy.
“Yes, it is the name my people have for the white man’s drink.”
“Aye, I remember you explaining that to me.” He frowned. “You helped to remove my jacket and my boots,” he went on. His frown deepened. “Did you also remove my clothes?”
“You removed them yourself, Braiton,” she supplied. “I did not think you were in any condition to sleep on the chaise,” she motioned to the lounge by the fire. “So I shared the bed. But I was not compromised,” she reassured him again. “So there is no need for you to be concerned further on that matter.”
He groaned again. “Why the hell didn’t I have the good sense to just pass out somewhere?”
It was all she could take; her pride shredded into tiny bits. She had to get out of the room. Away from him, away from the bed they shared before she choked on the sobs lodged in her throat.
“I am going for your
coffee now.”
In closing the door behind her, she overheard his angry voice.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
Chapter Seventeen
Raven discovered tea time with Evangeline O’Neill quite pleasant. Lady O’Neill was not the drunken sort Rory led her to believe. But in her large hazel eyes there was a deep and profound sadness.
“Again, I must apologize for not meeting you upon your arrival,” Evangeline said, taking a bite of a sugar cookie.
“Please, do not be concerned over it further.”
Evangeline’s thin gray brows knit together. “’Twas quite inhospitable of me, Lady Shannon. I am the hostess and you a guest. My dear husband Shamus is right, I am to be ashamed of my behavior.”
She took a sip of the tea. “But I understand the reasons why this time might not be a happy one for you, my lady.”
Evangeline sighed. “Aye, I see you’ve heard some talk.”
She nodded. “Rory told me of his brother’s death.”
“Corbin was his half-brother.” Evangeline corrected and sat back in her chair. “I suppose ’twould be only fair I explain it all to you.”
“Only if you want to, my lady.”
Evangeline gave her a timid smile. “Strange enough, I do, Lady Shannon. For a reason I cannot clarify, I believe you’d understand.”
“I should very much like the chance to try, but I would also like you to call me, Raven.”
Evangeline smiled. “Only if you’ll call me Evie.”
She returned the smile. “Agreed.”
Evangeline clasped her thin white hands together in her lap. “When I met Shamus he was a widower. Rory was only three and Joleena not quite two months old. The first Lady O’Neill, Ester was her name, died giving birth to Joleena. Shamus hired me to be the nanny.” She waved a hand above her head. “Needless to say, as time went on, things developed between us and within a year’s time we were married.” She paused to take a sip of her tea.
“I became with child soon after we wed. Corbin was the apple of my eye. Shamus, too, felt a special kinship with the lad, both being two peas in a pod. But as Corbin grew, Rory and Joleena became jealous of him, almost vindictive. At first Shamus and I just thought ’twas sibling rivalry, but I started to see things differently.” She sighed again. “Well, Shamus, of course, didn’t agree when I came to him with my worries. A father never wants to believe his children are capable of doing evil things.”
One Perfect Flower Page 19