Touched by Fire

by Kathleen O'Reilly

  In the following days, life for Sarah was quiet, serene, peaceful. . . and devilishly tedious. Sarah’s new husband had not touched her since the day in the garden, as if the happy interlude had never happened. Not a kiss, nor a caress, nothing that even resembled a mild token of affection. She smiled and laughed and flirted shamelessly, casting long, languid, gazes in his direction.

  And all for naught.

  He treated her with a polite deference that for another woman might have been disheartening. For Sarah, it was a declaration of war. That evening at dinner, Giles had outdone himself. The low light of candles flickered, casting everything in a golden glow. She had dressed in her blue silk, the same dress she’d worn at the theater, hoping to rekindle the memories of the night they first met. Colin’s eyes had flickered for a moment when she walked in the room, but he had said nothing, only nodding politely.

  The food was delicious, the sherry potent and warming, only her own charms seemed lacking. By the end of the evening, Giles bustled into the room, an army of servants clearing the table. The butler clapped his hands once and as quickly as they came, they disappeared.

  “My lady, sir, I’ll bid you adieu.” He closed the doors behind him, leaving them alone.

  It was the time she had been waiting for. She smiled timidly, and Colin stood, so tall and handsome.

  She plucked at the tablecloth, her eyes downcast, and when she heard his footsteps, she shuddered with delight. Soon she would be in his arms once more.

  He advanced until she could see him standing before her. Attempting an elegant, sophisticated bearing, she rose, and placed a gloved hand on his arm.

  For three beats of her heart, he stared at her hand. And then, without warning, he reached behind her, picked up her glass of sherry, and placed it in her hand. “Good night, Sarah.”

  He turned and left.

  By the fifth night, as once again he departed innediately after dinner, she was frantic.

  She knew she could feign illness or pretend the nightmares had reoccurred, and he would run to her side, but now both possibilities seemed abhorrent to her. She could not deceive him or take advantage of his considerate nature. No, she must win her husband in a fair manner.

  However, she was not above utilizing all the weapons at her disposal. She donned her most daring gown, a fetching creation of sea-green muslin with a silk overskirt, which floated about her like a cloud. After thinking for a moment, she discarded her stays. Knowing her husband, he would abandon all attempts before one lace was undone and that would never do. She let her hair hang loose on her shoulders, and studied herself in the mirror, pouting in a prurient manner.

  Tonight. Yes, tonight she would discover exactly why the man she married had been hiding. She searched the house to no avail; her husband had completely disappeared. However, there was one other place he might be and tonight, in her best dress and her most undaunted demeanor, she would leave no card unturned.

  Tonight he would be hers.

  Once outside, the elements teased her, reminding her of her sorry state. The night wind whispered in her ear, the first splatters of warm rain kissed her cheeks, and every now and then, one of the silken flowers would sway in her direction and lightly stroke her arm.

  Holding her head high, she marched down to the path to the lake. She spied his lonesome figure sitting in the soft rain, staring into the black night, his shoulders slumped as if they carried the weight of the world. Did he not realize that she was well? That she ached for his touch? That she wanted to be his truly? Well, he would certainly realize it after she was done with him.

  The further she walked, the harder the rain fell, and by the time she reached the gentle slope where he sat, it didn’t matter that she had brushed her hair until it shone, for it hung limply about her shoulders like strands of sodden moss. Her gown clung to her legs in what she could only hope was an alluring manner, but her spirits were still high.

  For she was Sarah Wescott, the new countess of Haverwood, and Sarah never lost.

  Colin welcomed the rain. His mood was foul, and the bottle of port he had polished off was not numbing his mind nearly enough. Why should he even try? He picked up his knife and stared at the blade. Black Jack Cady’s merry blade. The old earl had bought it for him as a souvenir from his father’s hanging. His father had carried this very knife in hands that were so like Colin’s. He studied his hands, long, square fingers, a workman’s hands. He had killed men, just as his father had. An all-consuming blackness flared inside him when he was angry, when he realized the power of his knife. The first time he killed a man, the power had terrified him, yet in the darkest places of his mind he had been mesmerized.

  War had given him a reason, a place for his rage, and Colin had learned to master it. But war could not teach him to be gentle with a woman. In war, there were no women except for the whores and the victims. Until he had met her, he had always been a man in control.

  Now he was a man going slowly and painfully insane.

  Everywhere he turned, she was there, watching him with her thoughtful eyes, smiling at him in silent invitation. His hands would move of their own volition, reaching out to stroke her hair, or touch her skin. He wanted his wife so badly it burned.

  He tried to bury himself in his books, but he only saw her face among the dragons. Finally, he had resorted to wine, but even the port brought no relief. He had made his way outside and by his count, he should now be completely foxed. Unfortunately, amidst the pouring rain he could hear her voice and see her sultry curves outlined so boldly against her gown. God, her thighs.

  “Colin!”

  He blinked with surprise, realizing that either she was really there before him or else he was dreaming rather vividly. Again. “Go away,” he said rudely.

  “No, I won’t.” His dream sat next to him, an angel descending into his own private hell. She was much too close, a pale beacon of light that shimmered through the sheeting rain. But the storm and the night didn’t hide enough.

  Her dress clung tightly to her breasts. He couldn’t look away, staring in fascination at her nipples that were so clearly visible beneath the fabric. He shouldn’t be leering so enthusiastically. Even in his cloudy state he knew he was spinning happily into dangerous oblivion.

  He took a dry swallow from his empty bottle. Better to look as if he had other things on his mind.

  “Are you angry at me?”

  Angry? “No.” His fingers flexed and he swallowed with difficulty.

  “Why don’t you touch me?”

  His head began to spin, the rain dripping into his eyes. He didn’t want to, but he stood. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I do.” His dream stared him down with stubborn eyes.

  “You’re still not well.” He walked in a circle, and tried to think of other excuses, but he could only think of her bare skin, awash in the rain.

  “I would not ache so, if you would but kiss me.”

  “Sarah, I wouldn’t stop at kissing you.” Even now he was eyeing her gown, thinking how he would unfasten it.

  She leaned back, a siren luring him to the rocks. With a slow, sly smile, she answered very simply, “I know.”

  He took a step forward, thinking of nothing more than spreading her thighs and impaling her on his length. But then she looked up with such trust that it sliced his heart to ribbons. “No.” Not now. He wouldn’t be gentle, tender. He would lunge at her like his father’s son.

  She was up on her feet instantly, rain spiking her lashes. “Why?”

  “You were hurt.”

  “I won’t let myself think of that anymore. I will not let that snake get the better of me and ruin what I have with you. We’ve been married for ten days, yet not once have you touched me with affection.” She tugged at his arm. “What do I do to win?”

  He clenched his fist in frustration. “This is all a damned game to you, nothing more. I’m a man, Sarah. Flesh and blood. The devil’s blood.” Slowly, insidiously, he moved clos
er.

  “And so you think it’s not important to me? You’re important to me. But I don’t understand, Colin. You’ve laid out some odd set of rules and I can’t follow them. I don’t even know what they are.”

  Jagged lightning lit up the sky, and his father’s blade flashed in the dark. Colin was tired of fighting her, fighting himself. The wine had blurred the edge of his control, and all he could think of was taking what she offered. Tasting what was forbidden.

  He swallowed, seeing the jeering face of the old earl, seeing the swaying corpse of his father. The rain pounded harder, but this time he would not walk away. The old earl thought he carried the taint of his father, and there was a part of Colin that was afraid it was true. It was time to discover who had been right all those years.

  The knife lay so still in grass, his security and his curse. He wouldn’t let himself hurt her. He would die first. He would give her the power to do it. “This is what you want?”

  She nodded.

  “My rules, Sarah. Only my rules.” He sat down on the sodden ground and held out a hand. She followed blindly. He let his mind run now, let all the greedy needs spill forward. “Do you remember the night at the theater?” His fingers tugged at the bodice of her gown, just enough to leave her shoulder bare.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d never seen a woman so lovely before. In the candlelight your skin glowed like cream, but your hair burned like flame.” He pressed his lips against the place he had exposed. One single kiss. “It was the most erotic image I’d ever seen. I stood there so stupidly, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.” He laughed. “No, that’s not true. I did think. I wanted to see your skin against mine. I wanted to take you right there. Did you know that, Sarah?”

  “Dear heavens.”

  He pulled the bodice down further, trailing his finger over the swell of her breast. “I do think, Sarah. All the time. About this.” The fabric dipped lower, and jealously he watched the raindrops glide down the white flesh. He couldn’t stand not touching her and so he followed the water’s path, taking the rain in his mouth, tasting the salt of her skin.

  When she smiled, that slow and confident curve of her lips, he drew in a long, much-needed breath of air that did nothing to clear his mind.

  She moved whisper close and stroked his cheek with her hand. “Do you know what I think about?”

  It was his turn to shake his head in silence.

  “How strong you are.” She ran her hands underneath his shirt, his muscles tensing at her touch. Slowly she drew the shirt from his shoulders, letting her fingers learn the line of his arm. Her fingers were so small and pale, touching him so gently as if he were the delicate one, not she.

  “Every time you took me in your arms, I cursed anything that pulled me away.” She explored the muscles in his upper arm, testing and touching in a studious manner that had him entranced. “So powerful that I wished I were prone to the vapors just so you would sweep me up once more.

  “And your eyes.” She touched a finger to his long lashes, tracing his brows. “So tender in one moment I wanted to weep, so wicked the next that I wanted to be locked away, just the two of us, until I understood exactly what secrets a man and woman shared.”

  He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  “Will you show me?” she asked, a whisper that roared in his head.

  Oh, he wanted to show her, he had certainly had enough dreams about it. He’d never been with a woman before, but he found himself nodding stupidly just the same.

  With both hands, he drew her dress down lower, baring her fully to the waist. His hands slid down her sides, her clothes falling away beneath his questing fingers. When she lay nude before him, lush and damp, his eyes feasted on her, following her breasts, her dusky nipples, the curls of fire that hid between her thighs. He should tell her how beautiful she was, how perfectly her skin glistened in the moonlight and rain, but he couldn’t find any words at all.

  So, he put everything into his kiss, hoping she would understand.

  Her response was passionate fire, her lips warm and wet, and he pulled her closer until she was locked against him, his hands sweeping the curves of her hips, discovering the softness of her back, cupping her bottom, letting her sex nestle against his own. His lust surrounded him, squeezing tightly, and he nearly exploded.

  Not yet.

  As he peeled away his boots and breeches, the glint of his father’s blade winked in the night. She stared up at him with bemusement, her mouth sweetly open.

  He slid against her, the moisture sealing their bodies together. “Sarah? There’s something I want you to do for me.” Swallowing with difficulty, he picked up his knife. “I want you to take this.”

  What had been heat and desire in her face turned to confusion. “What?”

  He wrapped her fingers around his blade. “It’s for you.”

  “For what?”

  “Protection.”

  She shook her head, still not understanding. “No one will harm me here. For God’s sake, Colin, we’re all alone.”

  He looked away, watching the lightning flash in the sky. “Not to protect you from someone else. To protect you from me.”

  “You’re not going to hurt me.”

  “I said, my rules.”

  “Not like this.”

  It was much too late for him to turn away, but he could pretend and he started to rise. “If that’s what you want.”

  She stopped him with a hand to his arm. “You really think you’re going to hurt me? That you could?” There was such disbelief in her voice that he believed she was right. But he looked at her hand, small and delicate, gripping his arm that had killed so many men. He wouldn’t take the risk that she was wrong.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can prove you wrong.”

  This was the Sarah that he loved. “That’s what I’m praying for.”

  “Give me the bloody knife. So I’m to hold this?”

  “Yes. You cannot let go of your weapon. A man is most defenseless right here,” he pointed to his throat, “and if you slice the artery, he won’t survive.”

  “You’re not going to hurt me,” she said, a snap in her voice. There was fury in her eyes, frustration, but he still saw her desire lingering there, and it licked at him, fed his hunger.

  “You keep believing that, Sarah, just don’t let go of the knife.”

  Carefully he lowered himself on top of her, waiting, expecting something from her, but he didn’t know what. He kissed her once more, gently, tenderly, even as he brought her hand to rest against his chest, so that he felt the prick of his blade against his skin. Only when he knew she was safe did he move with purposeful intent.

  He nudged her legs apart with his knee, and let his sex linger at the top of her thigh. Her eyes were locked on his, her jaw resolutely set, and he waited for her to tell him no, waited for her to call a halt. But instead she stared, daring him to continue.

  As if he could stop.

  He pushed once, but her flesh gave no more than her will. She was warm inside, surrounding him like a hot vise. It made him dizzy. The muscles in his hips flexed urgently, aching to drive inside her and he gritted his teeth. He pushed harder, watching, waiting for the cry, waiting for a scream, but she only stared in determined silence. He was further inside her now, throbbing, harder than he’d ever been in his life, and wondering how something that felt so exquisite could be going so terribly wrong. He brought her no pleasure, but her face was tight and stubborn, and so to spite her, he thrust once more, yet still the wall remained.

  A shudder rippled through her, the blade skimmed down his chest, and he froze. “I’m hurting you.”

  In an instant, the blade was back near his throat, her eyes burning as black as the night. “If you leave me now, I will kill you.”

  “Anything to win, right, Sarah?” Once again he thrust inside her, harder this time, his control slipping each time she
moved underneath him.

  “I am the countess of Haverwood,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  His wife. Oh, God. He plunged inside her, his muscles tensing as he let himself feel. He moved freely now, back and forth inside her, finding the rhythm, riding her as he had ached to do from the first time he saw her.

  More, more. He drove deeper within her, finding a freedom he’d never had, had never felt.

  Feeling, sensation, and power all came together and swept him away. He exploded inside her, the black enfolding him, the last rumbling of thunder rolling softly in the distance.

  Magnificent.

  He felt as if he could pluck the very stars from the sky for her, he had touched them. He nearly laughed, he was turning into a poet, but it was still difficult to breathe. There wasn’t a dragon he couldn’t slay, a mountain he couldn’t climb. He would bring her mounds of flowers, tickle her nose with them. She was wonderful and he rolled off her so he could tell her so.

  His wife lay on her back, her eyes closed, one small tear sliding down her cheek. He jerked as if shot, wondering what had happened. Dark blood, mixed with his seed, coated her thighs, and her arms bore the marks of his hands.

  He hadn’t even noticed.

  Bastard.

  Her lips moved, and he leaned closer, but it wasn’t necessary; her voice rang loud and stubborn.

  “I never lose.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Surely he would wake up and find this was a bad dream. He eyed his wife and counted carefully to himself, hoping to be conveniently jarred out of his nightmare. Finally, he sighed. Damn, he wasn’t that lucky.

  Sarah sat up, took a deep breath, and lifted her face to the last raindrops that fell from the sky. Her eyes, which normally hid nothing from him, were now full of secrets, and he despised himself for putting them there.

  Bravely, he spoke. “How are you?”

  “Right as rain, fit as a—”

  Colin held up his hand. “Tonight you’re allowed to malinger if you choose. I think I’d feel better if you did.” He rubbed his head, trying to ease the pounding. It was as if Beowulf had just stepped on the center of his forehead.