When it was over, she sank to her knees on the floor, astraddle of his lap, too dazed and breathless to speak. She made a grateful sound, low in her throat, when she felt his rod spring to freedom and begin probing her lightly.
Emma could bear no more teasing. She caught Steven in a velvety trap and took him as forcefully as he’d ever taken her, and his groan of submission was sweet music to her ears.
She lowered her mouth to his and nibbled at his lips while she rose and fell slowly along his length, subjecting him to the same leisurely ecstasy she’d had to endure. She tasted his neck, his earlobes, and finally his nipples, and his hands roved up and down her bare back in desperation.
When Emma sheathed him in earnest, he moaned and laid his head back against the edge of the mattress, his eyes closed. She began to ride him, faster and faster, glorying in the expressions that crossed his magnificent face as she made love to him.
Then with a powerful upward thrust and a cry, he spilled himself into Emma and she began to climax when she felt his warmth, leaning toward him and brushing her nipple back and forth across his mouth. He sucked hard while she trembled on his rod, her body contorting all around it.
When Emma came back to herself and realized that she was naked in the summerhouse, with her hair falling down around her shoulders and her husband still inside her, she flushed and averted her eyes.
Steven caught hold of her chin and made her meet his eyes again. “I love you,” he said clearly.
Emma let her forehead rest against his. “Steven,” she whispered, tears in her voice. “Let’s run away as soon as it’s dark. We’ll start over somewhere else—”
His hands cupped her bottom, as if to squeeze the last drop of response from her. “No, Emma. No more running.”
Fury shot through her, and she would have left him, but he held her by her hips and made her stay where she was. “Do you want to die?” she pleaded desperately. “Is that it?”
“Of course I don’t,” he said, and she felt him growing hard inside her. He began to guide her idly along his length and she was already responding, despite everything. “But I’m not going to run. I was finished with that the day I met you.”
Emma didn’t want to make love; she wanted to fight. But he was raising and lowering her, and her nipples were brushing against his rocklike, hairy chest, growing hard and pointed. She tried to argue, but the only sound that came from her throat was a strangled groan of defenseless pleasure.
He lifted his hands to her breasts and caressed them, the thumbs working her nipples mercilessly.
“There’s a baby inside you right now,” he said, leaning forward to trace her collarbone with kisses as Emma gave in and let her hips move of their own accord. “And as soon as you’re over having this one, I’m going to put another in you, Emma. And then another. I’m going to have you morning, noon, and night—”
“Ooooh,” Emma groaned helplessly, as he cut off his own words by closing his mouth over one of her nipples. He was deep inside her now, and as hard and insistent as before. He grazed her just lightly with his teeth and Emma’s body went wild.
Moments later she watched through hooded, sultry eyes as Steven’s release appeared to blind him momentarily, then wrung a long, low groan from his throat. All the while his powerful body arched taut and lean beneath her.
Presently Emma rose from him and began putting her clothes back on. Steven finished dressing first and was ready to fasten the back of Emma’s dress when she turned to him for that purpose.
“Do you think there’s really a baby?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he told her, turning her to face him. He worked her hair free of its bedraggled braid and combed it gently with his fingers.
She pressed her forehead to his shoulder and clung to him, both arms around his middle. Don’t leave me, she pleaded in miserable silence. Oh, Steven, please don’t leave me. Not now or ever.
When they’d both composed themselves, he led her out of the summerhouse and through the noisy summer evening. Emma was surprised to see that the day had slipped away without her noticing.
They entered the house by a rear door and took the back stairs to the second floor, and Emma felt relief when they reached their room. She’d been afraid of encountering someone in her disheveled state; anyone who saw them would guess what they’d been doing.
“Hungry?” Steven asked, as she stood in front of the bureau mirror, brushing her hair.
Emma thought for a moment, then nodded. “But I don’t want to eat with the others,” she said.
Steven nodded his understanding as she braided her hair and then pinned it up in a coronet at the crown of her head. She was just sinking into a tubful of hot, scented water when she heard his voice again. She couldn’t help smiling to think that, with all he was facing, Steven was humming.
He stuck his head around the door of the bathroom and his eyes widened when he saw her there, soaking away the evidence of their lovemaking. “I—er—brought your supper up,” he told her distractedly.
Emma smiled sleepily, then stretched her arms above her head and yawned.
Steven swore softly. “Don’t do that,” he scolded.
Emma nestled back into the water, too contented to move, even though she was hungry. Her eyes closed languidly as she relaxed, popped open again when she felt Steven’s hand touch one of her breasts.
He grinned and took a strawberry from a small bowl in his left hand, outlining Emma’s lips with it before slipping it into her mouth.
“Ummm,” she said, feeling wonderfully ddent.
Steven gave her another berry in the same way, then set the bowl aside. Emma started to rise out of the water, but he put a strong hand to her thigh and held her where she was. Then he placed a particularly ripe berry on her breast and bent his head to take it from her with his mouth.
Ferocious pleasure shot through Emma’s system when she felt his lips encompass not only the berry, but her nipple as well. He consumed both before lifting his head.
Emma laughed shakily at the mischievous grin she saw on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re going to make love to me again,” she protested, as he lifted her out of the water and began toweling her well-pleasured body dry.
“All right,” he answered, still grinning. “I won’t tell you.”
He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, spreading her gently on the silk counterpane. His eyes caressed her creamy flesh as he removed his clothes and poised himself over her on the bed.
Emma stretched, even though common sense told her to curl up in a ball, and when she did, Steven caught her hands together above her head and kissed her lightly between her breasts. She whimpered and pushed her legs apart to accommodate him, even though she was sure she had nothing more to give.
“No waiting this time,” he promised, then he rolled his tongue around Emma’s nipple until it stood up for him, ready to nourish.
She received him with a low cry of welcome, not expecting to be aroused, certain that her body had given all it could. But soon her thighs were thrashing on the mattress, and Steven was kissing her, and swallowing her exclamations and pleas.
When it was over, and they’d regained some of their strength, they sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing each other, eating from the same plate. After that they lay together beneath the covers, Emma’s head resting on Steven’s shoulder while he read aloud from a book of sonnets.
Presently Emma fell asleep and dreamed that she and Steven were old, and the happy laughter of their children’s children flowed in through the windows to touch her ears.
The courtroom was crowded, the epidemic notwithstanding, and the mood was oppressive. Emma sat stiffly beside Cyrus, her ivory-handled fan clasped unopened in one hand, her eyes scanning the jury members. All twelve faces were masculine, and all twelve were impassive—impossible to read.
Emma shifted her gaze to Steven, sitting just ahead of her at a table, Garrick Wright beside him. As though sensing her perusal,
Steven shifted in his chair to look back at her, and to her utter amazement, he winked.
She pursed her lips, amazed that he could take so serious a proceeding so lightly. He mimicked her dour expression, then turned to face the front of the courtroom again.
The Louisiana state flag stood behind the judge’s massive desk, along with the Stars and Stripes. There was a pitcher of water at hand for His Honor, along with a glass, and Emma’s mouth felt dry looking at it.
A bailiff entered the room to stand in front of the towering desk. “The Honorable Judge J.B. Beeman presiding,” he thundered, obviously taking his job seriously. “All rise.”
Emma suffered a wave of dizziness when she stood with the others, and teetered for a moment. Cyrus quickly took her arm and supported her with surprising strength.
Judge Beeman, a large, balding man with a fringe of red hair around his pate and with snapping blue eyes, took his seat and lowered the gavel. Everyone sat down again.
“Are you all right?” Cyrus asked, leaning close to speak into Emma’s ear.
Emma nodded, though the motion was a lie, and focused her mind on the proceedings that would determine her future as well as Steven’s. The hot, stuffy air smelled of sweaty bodies pressed too close together, and a fly buzzed loudly around the head of the prosecuting attorney, causing him to swipe at it fruitlessly with one hand.
The first witness called to the stand was a man who had attended the ball the night of Mary McCall’s murder. He was the first of a virtual multitude to testify that Miss McCall and Mr. Steven Fairfax had indulged in a public display of rancor before half the city of New Orleans.
Garrick didn’t cross-examine even one of these witnesses, which Emma thought was a gross oversight on his part, but of course no one asked her opinion.
As the morning passed, the room got hotter, the smells and sounds more odious to bear, and the frantic motions of Emma’s fan provided no relief at all. The room started to go black around her, and in sudden panic, she shot to her feet and attempted to flee toward fresh air.
The strange thing was that she could still hear clearly, though she couldn’t see at all. There was a murmur from the crowd of onlookers, then the scraping of chairs against the varnished wooden floors.
“Emma.” She heard Steven speaking her name and struggled through the dense blackness surrounding her to reach him. A horrid, piercing ammonia smell made her eyes fly open in surprise and alarm.
Steven smiled down at her, and after handing a vial of smelling salts back to a woman hovering nearby, he tenderly smoothed tendrils of coppery hair back from her face.
She was mortified to find herself lying prone in the aisle, to realize she’d made a scene that probably seemed calculated to the jury. She tried to stammer out an apology, but Steven laid his fingers to her lips and shook his head, then helped her back to her feet.
Cyrus was immediately at her side, his arm around her slender waist, supporting her. “I’ll see she gets home safely,” he assured Steven in an undertone.
Emma started to protest, but Steven shook his head and Cyrus escorted her firmly down the aisle to the door. As they passed, Emma felt curious, pitying eyes touch her, and lifted her chin a notch. For all her fierce dignity, she would not have made it through the lobby of the courthouse and down the marble steps outside if it hadn’t been for Cyrus.
At a signal from him, one of the Fairhaven coaches pulled up to the curb. Gently, Cyrus helped Emma inside. “The minute you get back home,” he ordered kindly, “I want you to lie down and puyour feet up.”
Emma clutched his hand for a moment, glad Cyrus meant to stay and lend his staunch support. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, wanting desperately to believe those words.
Cyrus nodded and she saw sympathy in his face. He spoke to the driver and the carriage lurched away from the curb.
Emma sat inside, gripping the edges of the leather seat and praying she wouldn’t be violently ill. Her stomach was roiling, her head pounded, and the inky darkness that had consumed her before gathered at the edge of her vision, ready to close in.
When they reached Fairhaven, Jubal rushed out to collect her. “I knew you shouldn’t have gone to that ole trial, Miss Emma,” fussed Jubal. “I tried to tell Mr. Steven that. You’s makin’ a baby, you can’t go gallivantin’ all over the parish—”
Emma might have smiled if her husband hadn’t been accused of a murder he didn’t commit. As it was, she just let Jubal prattle.
She was settled on the bed, wearing only her knickers and camisole, her feet propped on pillows and a cool cloth resting on her head, when she drifted off to sleep.
She awakened with a start to find Macon standing at the foot of the bed, watching her with a grin stretched across his face. His finger and thumb still lingered on her big toe.
Stunned, she scooted toward the headboard, as if it could lend her some protection, her eyes wide. Steven’s .45 was in the drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed. She inched in that direction. “What are you doing here?” she croaked.
Macon dragged his eyes over her lush figure, her sleep-rumpled underthings made of the thinnest lawn, and smiled. “You might say I’ve come to admire the spoils. It won’t be long now, Emma, dear. Things are going very badly for Steven. Soon you’ll be giving me fine, redheaded sons. Of course, I won’t be able to keep you here at Fairhaven—that would be indiscreet. We’ll have to get you a place in town.”
Emma tried to shield her breasts with one arm as she moved nearer and nearer the side of the bed. “You’re vile, Macon Fairfax, and I’d sooner die than let you touch me. Now, get out of here before I scream!”
“You can scream all you want,” he chuckled, spreading his hands wide of his lithe body. “There’s nobody here but the servants, and they wouldn’t dream of interfering, believe me.”
Emma swallowed hard. She couldn’t be sure whether he was bluffing; after all, this was Macon’s house as well as Cyrus’s. If he gave instructions, they were probably obeyed. “Get out,” she said again. Her hand was on the knob of the nightstand drawer, but she knew she wasn’t going to have time to get the pistol out and aim it before Macon was on her. He was too close, and his eyes showed that he knew exactly what she meant to do.
“It won’t be so bad, Emma,” he coaxed, his voice a syrupy croon by then. “I know how to make you happy, and you’re in just the right place for me to prove it.”
“Don’t touch me,” Emma breathed, shrinking back against the headboard, her eyes wide wih horror. “Steven will kill you if you touch me!”
“You wouldn’t tell him.” Macon was standing over her by then, looking down into her face. She could see a vein pulsing at his right temple as he set his jaw for a moment. “You’d keep it to yourself because he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of winning this case if he assaulted me in a fit of rage—would he?”
Emma’s heart was thundering against her ribs and she was sure she was going to throw up. She tried to move away from Macon, but he reached out and grasped her hard by the hair.
“Please,” she whispered.
He indulged in a small, tight smile. “Don’t humiliate yourself by begging, darling. It won’t save you. Keep your pleas for those last delicious moments before pleasure overtakes you.”
Bile rushed into the back of Emma’s throat. “Let me go.”
He pressed her flat against the mattress, his hand still entangled in her hair. She gazed up at him in terror, unable to speak at all.
The crash of the door against the inside wall startled them both.
Emma’s eyes swung to the doorway, and so did Macon’s. Nathaniel was standing there, still dressed in the suit he’d worn to Steven’s trial, his tie loose, his Fairfax eyes riveted on his cousin’s face. In his shaking hand was a derringer, aimed directly at Macon’s middle.
“Let her go,” he said furiously.
Macon released Emma, but only to shrug out of his coat and hang it casually over the bedpost. “Get out of here, Na
thaniel,” he said, sounding as unconcerned as if he were about to open a book or pour himself a drink. “This is business for a man, not a boy.”
Emma was breathing hard, her eyes fixed on Nathaniel, pleading with him. With everything in her, she longed to dive for the other side of the bed and run for her life, but she knew she wouldn’t escape Macon. Not without Nathaniel’s help.
“I won’t let you hurt her,” the boy said with quiet determination. The derringer, wavering before, was steady now.
Macon gave a heavy, rasping sigh and ran one hand through his thick hair. “I’m going to take my quirt to you for this,” he told Nathaniel evenly.
Nathaniel ran his tongue nervously over his lips.
“Don’t listen to him,” Emma said breathlessly. “Cyrus won’t let him hurt you—neither will Steven.”
Macon’s hand delved into her hair again, pulling hard. “Shut up,” he breathed.
“I said let her go!” Nathaniel shouted.
Macon sighed again. “I guess I’ll just have to take care of you first,” he said reasonably. He started toward Nathaniel, and in that awful instant, Emma saw the boy’s intent in his frightened eyes.
“No!” she screamed, leaping off the bed. “Nathaniel, don’t!”
Macon adced another step and the derringer went off. Both Emma and the boy, who had fired the shot, watched in horror as Steven’s elder brother went down, sinking first to his knees and then sprawling, spreadeagled on the floor. His blood soaked the rug.
“My God,” Emma whispered, wrenching on her wrapper and rushing to kneel at Macon’s side. In this moment of desperate need, his earlier transgressions were forgotten; nothing mattered but keeping him alive. “Nathaniel, run and get the doctor—quickly.”
The boy just stood in the doorway, his face devoid of all color, the derringer still in his hand.
“Nathaniel!” Emma screamed again, just as three of the servants pushed past him to enter the room. His paralysis seemed to be broken then; he dropped the gun to the floor and stumbled a few steps closer.
Emma and the Outlaw Page 32