He wished he knew what he was doing wrong. She was his wife, for heaven's sake. Maybe he'd been a little crude that first time, but he'd done everything he knew how to make it up to her since then. Did she intend to put him off forever? He didn't have forever. He only had tonight before he had to ride out. He could be gone for months. He couldn't wait for months.
He raced across the lawn and into the house, knowing without thinking about it that Janice would be headed for the safety of the tower. He might know very little about the woman who was his wife, but he knew the illusion of strength that she wielded against the world was just that—an illusion. She had learned to wield it very well, and it was an effective disguise, but he had caught glimpses of the broken little girl behind the facade. The little girl was the one who ran.
His breath came in short pants as he reached the top of the tower. He breathed a sigh of relief at finding the door to the suite still open. He still had time to convince her of whatever it was she needed to hear.
The sitting room wasn't lit, but he knew she was here. Peter crossed the room and reached for the door to the bedroom—and found it locked.
He stared down at the knob in astonishment. He hadn't even known the thing possessed a key. Despite all their arguments and disagreements this past week, Janice had never once locked him out of their room. He had slept beside her every night—horny as hell, maybe, but he'd been in the same bed with her. He couldn't believe that after everything had gone so smoothly, she would lock him out now.
If he was any kind of man, he'd tell her to go to hell, leave after the race, and file for a divorce as soon as he had the money. No woman was worth this kind of trouble. There was obviously something wrong with her in any case. She'd been willing enough earlier, he'd wager. It wasn't as if he were in the habit of forcing her. She'd just been an old maid too long, maybe.
But he wasn't any kind of man, he guessed. He'd married this woman and he meant to have her. He'd allowed too many things and too many people to slip through his hands in the past. He didn't intend for it to happen again. He didn't know what he would have to do to hold her, but he knew he wouldn't allow her to hide from him anymore.
As his mind churned with these decisions, Peter inspected the window overlooking the trees. The moon was on its way out, but its light still illuminated the side of the tower and the flat roof of the gallery below. He glanced over at the other window, the one leading into the bedroom. It would have to be open like this one to let in the air. It would be too hot to breathe otherwise.
He had to be insane to contemplate what he was contemplating. The Monteigne mansion was two stories tall with a walk-up attic above that. The tower stood another story above the attic. It was a damned long way down to the ground. But right at this minute, Peter didn't see any other course.
He had no intention of begging and pleading at the door. And he damned well wouldn't sleep on any couch. He meant to sleep with his wife, where he belonged.
The party was still going on when he came downstairs. Peter sent a pair of sleepy children peeking out the curtains back to their beds, checked to make certain Betsy slept, then headed out to the yard. He'd seen a ladder thrown against the stable when they cleaned out the barn.
It wasn't easy maneuvering the long ladder through the front doors to the second floor, but it wasn't long enough to reach from the ground to the tower. Alicia Monteigne peered out her bedroom door to see what he was doing, but Peter was beyond caring what other people thought. Let the girl tattle tomorrow. By then, he'd have settled this matter with Janice.
He left the ladder lying in the second-floor hall while he ran up the stairs to inspect the attic windows. As he'd thought, the dormer window overlooking the second-floor gallery roof was just barely big enough to allow the ladder through.
He retrieved the ladder and carried it up the second flight of stairs. By this time, he knew he was crazy. He wore his best trousers and shirt, and they were ruined with dust and sweat. His jaw throbbed where the stranger had hit it. He probably looked as mad as he felt. But he was determined to have the woman lying in the bed just above this floor, just like he would have that mountain if he had to kill himself doing it. A man had to set his sights on some goal and pursue it. He'd rather make an ass of himself going after what he wanted than to sit around complaining that he couldn't have it.
It wasn't easy maneuvering the ladder out the narrow window, but he managed it. It rested nicely on the gallery roof, but it came somewhat short of the tower window. Peter eyed the distance and wondered if Janice was asleep yet. He hoped he hadn't left his guns in the bedroom. If she wasn't asleep, she might think him a burglar and shoot him.
That thought didn't deter him. He swung out the attic window to the gallery roof, moved the ladder into a stronger position, and began to climb.
* * *
Lying in bed with the mosquito netting pulled back to allow in every breath of air, Janice heard the scraping noises but paid them no heed. She had heard Peter follow her into the suite, heard his footsteps outside the door, heard the knob turn. She had held her breath and waited for his cries of outrage, but they'd never come. He had simply walked out again.
She didn't think she wanted to cry. She was accustomed to being alone. It was much better that things ended this way, before they did or said things they would regret later. Peter would come to understand that he was better off without her. He might even be grateful for her decision sometime in the future. She just wasn't entirely sure about herself. She didn't know how she would survive. But it would surely be much easier to go on now, before she came to rely on a man who wasn't reliable.
The scraping noises grew odder. If the wind had picked up to brush branches against the house, she ought to feel a breeze by now. The tower caught more of the evening breezes off the river than the rest of the house, but it still held the heat of the day. She was sweltering.
It didn't take but a moment's defiance to pull off her nightgown and throw it to the floor. There wouldn't be anyone here to notice, that was for certain.
The sheets weren't much cooler than the gown, but the air against her skin felt delicious. She felt bold and daring and more in control of her life than she had been for longer than she cared to think. She shoved back the top sheet and stretched grandly in the huge bed, pushing the covers off with her toes and reaching her arms above her head. The action caused her breasts to rise, and she had a sudden vision of Peter pushing them up and telling her how beautiful they were. She lay still, and almost felt his tender caress. Her nipples grew hard and ached in response.
She was painfully aware of her body. She had never thought of it as more than a department store dummy to be dressed and kept clean. Now she had breasts that tingled and a hollowness on her inside needing to be filled and an ache where she couldn't mention. She curled into a ball to try to shove all these parts back into the numb whole she had once been, but it didn't work.
Peter had brought her to life again.
She didn't like it. She didn't want to feel. She didn't want to give in to these intruding sensations. They had led her to do mindless things once before, and the result had been disastrous. She couldn't allow herself to ever give in again.
But it was too late.
Even as her hand covered her breast in a futile attempt to erase the ache, the noise at the window drew her attention. Janice stared as dark shoulders emerged above the open window frame. That wasn't possible. The room was far above the trees. No one could come in from outside.
The open window went from floor to ceiling. Seemingly effortlessly, powerful arms and shoulders lifted a man through the opening to a kneeling position on the floor. Then he stood and stepped through the flimsy muslin curtains. Janice lay motionless, disbelieving. She wasn't afraid. She knew who it was. She just couldn't believe he'd done it.
"Peter?" she finally got his name out, although it was colored with astonishment. Perhaps the figment would disappear at the sound of a voice.
He did
n't disappear. He moved closer to the bed, and Janice could see him unfastening his shirt. That sent a frisson of something through her, but she wasn't sure it was fear. She didn't entirely comprehend what was happening here.
"You must have locked the door by mistake. I didn't want to wake you."
She heard the lie in his voice. He wasn't angry. His tone was wry, as if he could scarcely believe what he had done, either. Janice stared from the window back to the man who now sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes.
"You climbed in the window?" That was a stupid question, but she was too amazed to think of another. Her mind wasn't quite functioning yet.
"Tyler's going to wonder about that ladder if he gets up before we do in the morning, but from the sounds of it, the party will go on until dawn. I don't think we have to worry."
This was insane. They sat here having this perfectly normal husband and wife conversation, and he had just climbed up four stories to come in her bedroom window. Janice stared at him as if he were crazed.
"If there hadn't been a ladder, would you have climbed the vines?" she asked, still incredulous, but her incredulity now wasn't so much for the fact that he had been able to do it, but that he had done it to get to her. She could see him shrug as he stood up.
"Probably." He began to unfasten his trousers.
He was unfastening his trousers, and she was lying here naked. And she wasn't doing anything about it.
She didn't know if Peter could see her in the moonlight. But she could certainly see enough of him to know what he was doing. And how he was feeling.
She stared as the patch of dark curls emerged from the unbuttoned material, and she couldn't look away when the rest of him emerged. The vigorousness of his arousal didn't leave any doubt as to what was in her husband's mind. Janice moved slightly away as he stepped out of his trousers and came to the bed.
"We're going to talk," he told her. But what he did next didn't feel like talking.
He climbed onto the bed and on top of her.
Janice sucked in her breath as Peter planted his knee between her legs. He didn't do anything more than prop himself on his elbows above her, but she was frantically aware of the heat of his arousal rubbing low against her abdomen. She wouldn't be in any condition to talk like this.
Neither was he. He hesitated briefly, then bent to place a kiss at the corner of her mouth. "We'll talk, but not now," he whispered against her lips.
Not now. Not ever. It didn't matter. She was on fire.
Janice opened her mouth for his kiss, and drowned in sensations with just the touch of his tongue. He caught her head and held her still while his tongue probed and explored and her body arched helplessly in some instinctive resistance to his possession. The move was a mistake, because now she was aware of the hardness of the male thighs capturing her own, of the length of the male organ searing her skin, and the need of her breasts to be touched.
Peter obliged this last without being told. His hand cupped her fullness while his thumb tortured the tip, driving her mindlessly to deepen their kiss. She returned the caress of his tongue, grasped the straining muscles of his arms, and lifted herself invitingly to his touch. He groaned and shuddered above her, and then his mouth moved from her lips to her breasts and she writhed in ecstasy.
She didn't know how she could reach this state so quickly. It didn't seem possible. She didn't want it. She wanted nothing to do with what he was doing to her. But she rubbed her hands up and down his arms, kissed his hair, and groaned helplessly as he ravaged first one breast, then the other. She was behaving shamelessly, for she knew of a certainty where this would lead, where she wanted it to lead.
He was too impatient to make her wait for long. Janice cried out when Peter slid his fingers between her thighs, but she spread them willingly at his caress. She ought to be fighting him, protesting, but he'd sapped her will and left her spineless. She cried out when his fingers pierced her, and she raised eagerly for more.
"Tell me when, Janice. I'll not leave you crying this time."
The whisper against her ear startled her. She had been so caught up in the sensations of her body that she had left her mind behind. She lifted her eyes to see Peter's hovering just above her. His fingers were doing unspeakable things to the lower part of her while his gaze followed the expression on her face. She ought to be embarrassed beyond redemption. Daringly she touched the muscular ridge of his chest. She felt the tension in him, knew the willpower that held him back, and knew she wouldn't fight him. She would curse herself in the morning.
"When, Peter," she whispered, and felt him crush her in his arms in reply.
She was going to regret this, she knew, but nothing short of death would stop her now.
Chapter 23
Peter kissed her—a kiss so deep and full of longing that it released the locks on her own carefully shielded emotions. Janice thought she would drown in the flood of unleashed desire, and she clung to Peter's shoulders as her only anchor in a tide of uncertainty.
But the flood found an outlet in the things he did to her body. All the tension and passion rushed to her loins, building up a powerful tide that waited only for the dam to be breached. Touching wasn't enough. She needed more.
And he gave it to her. With a muffled groan of triumph, Peter surged into her, and she no longer had any need to hold back. Janice cried out her joy and pain as he took her, stripping away all the ache and loneliness, penetrating the vacuum that she had been.
He was fast and fierce in his possession, as if fearful he would be denied again and determined not to be. He wasn't any faster or fiercer than Janice wanted. She had no knowledge of the joy of this joining until now, when it welled up in her and built with every stroke of Peter's hard body. She reveled in the power of this happiness, understanding it wasn't just her own joy but his also that came with this blending of their bodies.
And then he erupted inside her, burying himself so deep and with such passion that he forced open yet another lock. Janice screamed at the explosion as her womb seemed to take on a life of its own. As her insides clutched him and pulled him deeper, Peter laughed and moaned and held her close, until they were both too weak for more.
He finally found the strength to roll his weight off her, but he gathered her close against his side. Janice went willingly, not yet ready to return to a state of separateness. As long as she sprawled along Peter's side, her perspiring flesh stuck to his, she could remain part of him. She was so very tired of being alone.
His hand skimmed her side, touched her gently at the hip, moved upward to curve around her breast. Janice sighed and snuggled closer. She would undoubtedly regret this later, but not now.
"You're more generous than I ever dreamed, Mrs. Mulloney," he murmured. "And so good that I want you again already."
She ought to be frightened at the thought, but she wasn't. "I didn't know it could be like that. You'd think we could hurt each other."
His hand trailed down to the apex of her thighs and rested there. "I didn't want to hurt you. I suppose it's kind of hard for two people living together not to sometimes hurt each other, but I didn't want to hurt you this way. I don't want to just use you."
This time what he said and not just the sound of his voice caused a warm little shiver in her middle. She understood now that she had been used before, that what they had just done was so completely different that she couldn't grasp the whole of it yet. She ran her fingers daringly up his chest, exploring previously forbidden territory.
"You didn't hurt me," she said slowly, looking for ways to explain. It wasn't easy. What they had just done was a topic never spoken about to her knowledge, and it certainly wasn't a subject she had ever dared to think about. Finding words for it now seemed an impossibility. "I didn't know.... I thought it was different for a woman than for a man."
The hand under her stroked her hair. "It doesn't have to be, although I'll admit my experience in that department is limited. With you, I know the pleasure isn't f
aked. I don't think any woman has ever made me feel so good. I want it to be the same for you." Peter turned his head to look down at her. "Will you tell me about that first man? Is he the reason you were afraid?"
Even now, feeling so relaxed it was a wonder she didn't melt, Janice could feel the old protective barriers snapping into place. But they didn't snap quickly enough to keep everything out. "How do you know there hasn't been a dozen men?" she asked with a hint of anger. "Isn't that what men usually think? Once a woman has fallen, she's eager to sample everything that comes along?"
Peter snorted and shoved her over on her back, trapping her there with one strong leg. "I probably would have thought something equally asinine about any other woman but you. You don't know a damned thing about making love. You didn't even know how to kiss. And you did your damnedest to hide behind that schoolmarm disguise so no one would ever attempt to teach you. You're hiding something, all right, Mrs. Mulloney, but it isn't a trail of lovers."
He was coming much too close. She could see no reason in the world why he should know the whole truth when no one else did. It would serve no purpose. As a mother duck will protect her young by leading intruders astray, Janice gave him enough to lead him away from more dangerous shoals. "I thought I was in love once. I was very young and he was very selfish. That's all there was to it."
Peter brushed her hair back off her face. "He must have been more than selfish. He must have been crude and stupid. How could he hurt a beautiful young girl and then walk off and leave her?"
She could tell him that part easily enough. Peter had just said people living together would occasionally hurt each other. She had a bushel basket of hurts to distribute. If it would keep him away from Betsy, she would willingly stab herself.
"Stephen was young too, young and ambitious," she answered slowly. "When your father fired all the railway workers, Stephen lost the only employment he knew. He went in search of work. He never came back."
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