Moonlight Rebel

by Ferrarella, Marie

  Angry, hurt, Krystyna refused to look at Jason. Instead, she walked right past him, about to follow Charity down the stairs. She wanted to get away before tears betrayed her.

  "Krys." His voice only seemed to accelerate her steps. He hurried after her and caught her by the shoulders. Swallowing an oath, he turned her around, not as gently as he might have. "I called you."

  Krystyna raised her chin. "I did not choose to stop."

  Damn her. Why did he care so much what she thought? Why did he care at all? But he did, and he was doomed to try to reason with her. "Come with me." He took her hand. "I want to talk to you."

  She didn't budge. "We have nothing to say to one another. Perhaps you would like me to call back your friend and have her 'listen' to you." She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs down which Charity had disappeared.

  His patience broke. "God damn it, woman! Let me explain!"

  His eyes were blazing when she looked up into them. If she had any sense at all, she would just go. He couldn't force her to listen.

  But she relented. "All right." Keeping her hands stiffly at her sides, she followed him into a room.

  It was his. She could tell in an instant. It was slightly in disarray, the way he always appeared to her, with books scattered here and there. The furniture was strong and sturdy. And the bed was neatly made. If they had made love as Charity had so broadly hinted, then they must have done it on the floor, and without spirit at that, for even the colorfully woven scatter rug seemed to be in place.

  Krystyna crossed to the chair, bent down, and picked up the leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's sonnets that Charity had flung aside. The choice of reading matter surprised her.

  When a click echoed in her ears, she whirled around to see Jason pocketing the key to the door.

  "I won't have you running out on me before I'm finished."

  Krystyna's eyes narrowed, for she misunderstood his meaning. "If you try," she emphasized the last word, "to take me, you will be forcing yourself on a defenseless woman. And be less the man for doing it. But even if you succeed, and I shall fight you," she warned, "you will not have conquered me. The man who conquers me will have more than my body." She raised her head proudly, her heart beginning to hammer hard at his nearness. She damned her own weakness and only prayed that he would listen to her words and not see into her soul. "He will have all of me, and willingly. There is no victory, no glory in the 'conquest' you propose."

  Was she ever more beautiful than now? he wondered. How he wanted her. "You are hardly defenseless, and the conquest, as you call it, would be its own reward." He took the book from her and tossed it on the bed. "But I will not take by force what I can have by patience." He took no step, but his eyes touched her everywhere.

  Her body turned traitor, tingling, yearning for the feel of his hands.

  "I took you once without force. It shall happen again." This time, he did take a step forward.

  She tried to back away, but her path was blocked by the hearth and his chair. Raising her head, she looked up at him, daring him to come closer, damning him if he did. And all the while, her pulse raced.

  He reached for her, his fingers slowly wrapping about her arm. It was the first step. "I wanted to explain about Charity."

  She wouldn't be lied to again. Once was enough to be played for a fool. "You have no need to explain," she told him. "What a man does with his fiancée is his own business. I merely work here."

  "You don't 'merely' do anything here," he informed her. Since that first moment, she seemed to have seeped in under his skin, bedeviling him, rearranging things at his home, changing everything. "And Charity is no longer my fiancée. I have just officially broken the engagement."

  She wanted to believe him. But she had believed him once, and then had seen him kissing the woman on the veranda. The words that rose to her lips couldn't be held in check. "Before or after?"

  She was going to drive him mad, with wanting or with annoyance. "Before or after what?"

  She crossed her arms before her. "You bedded her."

  Her jealousy pleased him, but her accusation didn't. It angered him as much as his dependence on her affection did. That dependence threatened life as he knew and enjoyed it.

  "I did not bed her." He enunciated every word slowly. "I have not been able to make love to anyone since the first time I held you in my arms and kissed you." His voice lowered as wanting filled him. "The smell of your hair fills my head every time I'm close to you. And when I look at another woman, I begin comparing her to you. And finding her lacking. I don't know why, but you've done something to me, something I don't fully understand. No one else seems good enough anymore. I want only you."

  She had to leave. She was weakening at an incredible rate. "Is this what you say to all your women?" Krystyna hoped her tone would offend him and that he would open the door and release her. She knew she hadn't a prayer any other way.

  Instead, Jason came even closer, blocking her access to the door. In truth, he blocked out everything in the room. All that existed was his presence. She tried to maintain an air of defiance, hoping to dissuade him from reaching for her. If he touched her again, she would be lost. Yet her pride demanded that she not give in. Did he think she was some foolish peasant girl, to be won over with pretty words he didn't mean?

  "You're not like any other woman I've ever known." As he spoke, he ran his fingers lightly through her hair, turning her knees to water, her soul into flame. "I want you, Princess, want you more than I have ever wanted anyone before."

  His breath was warm on her cheek, caressing it. Shivers danced through her, awakening the devil that never really slept anymore, not since that first time.

  A bittersweet yearning took possession of her, cascading through her limbs, her breasts, her arms, until all of her ached to be touched by him just the way her hair was. She looked away, fearing that he would see desire spring into her eyes.

  And saw the book on his bed. "I ... I did not know you liked poetry," she said, searching for something to say.

  He smiled. He saw her tremble and knew it was because of him. "Did you really think of us as so totally uncivilized? We have the same feelings here as people in Europe." His eyes mesmerized her, drawing her to him. "The same desires."

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth tenderly. And once his lips had touched hers, had set off the fire within her that only he could ignite, she made no further attempt to pull away. She could no longer think of what was right or proper. There was no space for that in her mind. All that existed was her need for him, an all-encompassing passionate need.

  He swept her up into his arms, and she needed her head against his neck. The single act of surrender made him feel humble. Gently, he placed her down on his bed, lying down next to her. Though he burned to take her swiftly, he forced himself to prolong the process for her. For himself.

  His lips touched her eyes, her cheeks, her throat, sending her further and further into the fiery fields his lovemaking opened for her. She felt him press, hard and hot against her. Excitement coursed though her veins.

  His lips slowly covered the skin that was exposed above her decoUetage as his fingers worked patiently to free her from her clothes. She wore no corset to bind her, to keep him from her, only her chemise. She scarcely knew it fell away, for she was feeling the warmth of his hands as they touched her flesh, tenderly massaging her, possessing her with every stroke.

  He rubbed her breasts, teasing the rosy peaks into hardness before his mouth covered them, suckling, adding to the raging fire that burned within them.

  Krystyna heard herself moan as she grasped his shoulders, and he went beneath her skirts, searching for the top of her pantaloons. Two short tugs, then the impression of his hands burned against her thighs as he stroked, his fingers reaching, searching, probing the very center of her passion.

  Her eyes flew open. As she looked at him, surprised by the wondrous sensations he could evoke with so simple a movement, she sa
w that his own eyes did not mock her or even tease, as was often his wont. He appeared as much a prisoner of this feeling as she. He stroked and caressed her until she yearned to tear off the remainder of her clothing, to feel him next to her, without the shield the material offered. Her hips moved in rhythm, responding to each gesture he made.

  "Sit up," he coaxed. Swiftly, he unlaced the back of her dress and pulled it and her chemise over her head. "Now raise your sweet hips, my love. I've a need to see you."

  She sat on the bed nude, her breasts raised high, her skin glistening like alabaster in the fire's light, yet she was not cold. The flame in his eyes warmed her.

  "My God," Jason whispered, his voice filled with reverence. "Oh, Princess, I want to hold you against my breast and feel your heart beat against mine. I want your warm breath against my skin. I want to live and die within reach of your arms."

  He shed his shirt quickly and shucked his britches, casting them aside. His bare chest covered her breasts as his lips once more found hers. Swiftly, his needs threatening to overpower him, he forged a path of hot kisses from her mouth to her breasts, to the quivering hollow of her abdomen.

  And beyond.

  Somewhere, her modesty offered a weak protest, and she tried to put a hand up to stop him. "No, do not."

  She thought she said the words. But perhaps she didn't, for Jason did not stop and, suddenly, a fire exploded in her when she felt his tongue upon her, questing, finding, rendering her almost mindless.

  As she floated beyond the reach of reason, he came to her, thrusting himself into her with an urgency they shared. He moved inside her, and she raised her hips to meet him, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him.

  They didn't notice the flames dying out in the hearth. They had never begun to match their own fire.

  Chapter Twenty One

  When Lucinda reached the nursery, she found that Krystyna had already been by and left the new lessons with Christopher.

  "And you'll do them like a good boy, won't you?" Lucinda smiled as she stroked her son's flaxen head.

  "Yes, mother." His young voice was patient. "But Krystyna says I don't have to hurry with them."

  "Mistress Krystyna," Lucinda corrected.

  Christopher played with the toy horse his uncle had carved for him. "It's Countess Krystyna, Mother. But she says I don't have to call her that. She likes to be called Krystyna."

  Lucinda was pleased that Krystyna was so informal with her son. The last tutor had been much too strict, but she had been afraid to say anything to Morgan about him. "You like her, don't you, dear?"

  The small face brightened "Very much. She's a lot nicer than Master Phipps." He looked up at his mother, as if he were telling her something she wouldn't realize on her own. At ten, he had come to regard her in the same fashion as the others. "And a lot smarter, too."

  Lucinda nodded, glad to hear Christopher's reactions to Krystyna. She, too, liked this quiet, composed young woman. Krystyna had taken the time to show her how to make proper stitches in her needlework, something she had never managed to do on her own, no matter how hard she tried.

  And Krystyna talked with her. Not at her or to her. Or worse, around her. But with her. Lucinda had never felt so happy before. In her heart she hoped that Krystyna would never leave.

  She went down the stairs in search of her now, peeking into the sitting room and finding it empty. In the dining room several of the guests still lingered over breakfast. Krystyna probably went back to her cabin, Lucinda decided.

  She took her wrap from the rack by the door and hurried outside. She had finished her sampler that very morning. It was a simple one, but she was proud of it. She couldn't have done it without Krystyna. Now that it was completed, Lucinda wanted to show it to her. More than that, she wanted to give the sampler to Krystyna as a sign of their new friendship.

  Lucinda smiled to herself. She had never had a friend before. A rosy feeling spread through her as she arrived at the cabin.

  She knocked lightly on the old wooden door and shook her head as she looked at the cabin. Someone of Krystyna's fine background should have a nicer place to live than this. She should be staying in the house.

  There was no response to her soft knock. Perhaps Krystyna was busy and didn't hear her. Summoning her courage, Lucinda lifted the latch and peeked in. The room was empty.

  And then she saw Sin-Jin. He was asleep in Krystyna's bed, his red uniform folded and lying off to the side. Lucinda swung the door closed again, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Krystyna had a soldier sleeping in her bed. Dear Lord, a British soldier!

  Her hands flew to her mouth as she thought, of the consequences if Morgan McKinley should find out. He would be furious, absolutely furious. Worse than that, he would put Krystyna out.

  Lucinda's mind raced in circles like a frightened animal. She couldn't allow this secret to come out. She didn't want Krystyna to be sent away, not when things were going so well. Yet, she thought it would be disloyal not to let Morgan know. Dismayed, her head swimming in confusion, she deeply regretted having come.

  In bewilderment, she wandered back into the house. Savannah looked at her sharply as she passed. Her sister-in-law usually had a fairly pleasant, vacant look on her face. Now her expression was the picture of mystification.

  "What's the matter?" Savannah wanted to know.

  Lucinda looked up, startled. She was so disoriented she hadn't even realized that Savannah was there. "Nothing," she murmured quickly, looking at the floor lest the other woman might read something in her expression. "Nothing at all." She hurried away. The last person in the world she wanted to know what she had just seen was Savannah.

  Savannah shook her head. "Ninny." She continued on her way to the library, where she found Charity. Her friend was sobbing, angry tears dampening her lacy handkerchief.

  What was wrong with everyone this morning? Were they all distraught? "Goodness, what is the matter with you?"

  Charity wiped her cheek, crumpling the handkerchief in her fist. "I've decided to break my engagement to your brother."

  Savannah seated herself opposite the young woman and studied her in surprise. This was the last thing she had expected to hear Charity say. Just what was the little minx up to now? She knew that Charity was consumed with lust for her brother, and she suspected it was Jason, not Charity, who had called an end to the engagement.

  Playing her role, Savannah reached over and patted Charity's hand in sympathy. "Isn't this a little sudden, dear?"

  Charity shrugged carelessly. "Not really. I fear this was a long time in coming. I just didn't know how to break it to the poor boy. But he is far too," she paused, searching for the right word, "unorthodox for my tastes," she concluded happily.

  "As you wish," Savannah said demurely. "I certainly am sorry that we won't be having you in the family." In truth, she hadn't cared one way or the other about Charity marrying her brother. Savannah only knew that Charity was a better choice than the upstart Jason was considering now. At least Charity could be manipulated. "I had so looked forward to all the nice times we could have as sisters."

  Absently, Savannah leaned forward for a better view of the dining room. Winthrop was still there, stuffing himself. She gave an impatient sigh.

  Does that man do nothing but eat? she wondered. Her brother's break with Charity put her in a pensive mood. She was really bored with Winthrop. But for his family ties, she knew in her heart she wouldn't be seeing him, much less contemplating marriage to the man. Her father's wishes didn't concern her. She could work around him if necessary. Winthrop looked as if'he would grow into a fat, dull old man. And soon. There was a part of Savannah that longed for romance. The idea of Winthrop making love to her filled her with revulsion.

  She sighed again. Marriage would certainly not be anything to look forward to. But then, she was confident that she could put Winthrop off except for a few times a year. It was a small price to pay for a title.

  She realized th
at Charity was still talking to her, despite the fact that she had stopped answering. "I'm sorry, what did you say, dear? I'm afraid I'm still very shocked by your news."

  Charity looked annoyed at having to repeat herself. "I said that I want to send one of your people for my brother. I wish to go home as soon as possible. Tomorrow perhaps." She struck a weary pose. "There're so many things to put aside now that the wedding won't be taking place next month."

  "Next month?" Savannah echoed. This was the first she had heard of it. She really is a scheming minx, Savannah thought, looking at Charity. She was certain there had been no such plan. "I had no idea it was to be so soon."

  "Oh, yes." Charity kept her eyes turned demurely upward. She knew she looked terribly appealing that way. "Jason wanted to assure that he would have me as quickly as possible. That was why I had to make the announcement. I couldn't very well leave the poor dear at the altar." That would be exactly what she would relish doing. But that chance to humiliate him now would never be hers.

  Savannah rose, tired of listening to lies, tired of the sight of Winthrop eating and slobbering. He wasn't fat yet, but his waist was far from trim. She could envision him becoming very obese as time went on.

  A fat, slobbering man. Am I really doing the right thing? she asked herself.

  She was about to leave the room when she heard the front door bang and an oath pierced the air. Her father was home. He had left that morning to visit a neighboring plantation owner. They had expected him to be gone until the end of the week. What could have brought him back so suddenly? Savannah wondered.

  She rose and kissed his ruddy cheek as Morgan McKinley burst into the room. "Hello, Father." She glanced in Charity's direction. News of the broken engagement would wipe the scowl from her father's face, she'd wager. He had never liked Charity. "We didn't expect you back so soon."

  He shrugged out of his coat and let it drop on the chair Savannah had vacated. "I wanted to get back before there was no home to get back to." Morgan went over to the decanter of wine he kept in the room and poured himself a small glass.