by Lady Vixen
Nicole was full of him, as was every fiber of her being. It was as if she were absorbing him—the scent of him, the faint lingering hint of tobacco, the sharp scent of whiskey, and the musky masculine odor that was essentially Christopher. She was spinning in a sensual dream, drunk on the taste of him, her open mouth sliding down his neck, her tongue tasting the salt of his shoulder, only to return hungrily for the tender savagery of his kiss, as he explored her willing mouth with a sweet fierceness that was as intoxicating as wine.
The soft prickly crush of his chest against her tingling nipples, the touch of his hard legs on her thighs, drove her to the point of madness, and she twisted uncontrollably under him. Christopher's hands came down swiftly to her hips, urging and guiding her movements with a desperate need for release. Both were engulfed by the searing flame of desire devouring them, their bodies coming together with a feverish intensity.
The ache in her loins grew until she was rigid with a sweet, piercing agony that suddenly exploded into a wash of pleasure so intense that unconsciously she dug her nails into his back and sobbed aloud, crying his name, her body trembling and damp from the force of the exquisite, shattering ecstasy that he lavished upon her slim body.
Floating, drifting, almost dizzy from the pleasure he evoked, she lay there in the bed, savoring the feel of him, the jump his body gave when at last he, too, could bear the intensity no longer and spilled himself deep inside her.
And afterward there were no words between them, just silence and completeness and that half-drunk feeling that follows such acute pleasure. Replete and satiated, Nicole blindly turned her head into Christopher's shoulder, and with a promptness that was startling, like a child she fell asleep, her body still pressed against the long length of him.
Sleep was not so easy for Christopher. And having considerably more experience with the physical aspect of desire, he knew that tonight had been something beyond just a casual mating. Reflectively he stared down at Nicole's sleeping face. In sleep her features took on the sweet innocence of youth, the dark lashes lying like thick black fans against her skin, her mouth soft and tenderly curved, and the burnished hair waving gently across one cheek. Staring at her, he was conscious of the queerest sensations—puzzlement, because of the odd conflicting emotions she aroused, and possessiveness. She was his! And that was a strange notion coming as it did from a man for whom women were playthings—not even quite human. And buried deep there existed a certain amount of fondness—if not for Nicole Ashford, at least for Nick. Even now he could recall vividly the feel of that skinny little body pressed against him that night five years ago as they had left Beddington's Corner. He grinned in the darkness, remembering too her ferocious attack on the stableboy. What a small hellcat she had been. And if there was one thing he admired it was spirit. Without a doubt his Nick was one of the pluckiest little devils he'd ever known. And suddenly, inexplicably, thinking of the danger she had been in all those years on La Belle Garce, his arms tightened instinctively around her. He'd kill anyone who harmed her. Then he smiled to himself. Poor Nick, she was safe from everyone but himself.
Drowsily, his cheek dropped to rest on her hair. Well, he wasn't going to waste any more effort thinking about Nick, tonight. It never did any good letting your emotions get involved with women—they were amusing creatures and making love to them was a pleasant way of spending an evening or two. Just don't ever develop a tenderness for one, he thought sleepily; therein lay madness.
CHAPTER 18
Nicole woke slowly the next morning. She lay in the bed not quite awake, her body and emotions satiated and at rest for the first time in many weeks. A soft smile on her lips, she stretched luxuriously and reached for the pillow that bore the imprint of Christopher's head.
At what time he had left, she had no idea, but she suspected it must have been near dawn. And judging from the faint light filtering into the room, it couldn't be too many minutes past that time right now. The area where he had lain still held a trace of warmth from his body. Her arms enfolded his pillow as if somehow it had become Christopher's big vital body. She was drowsy and relaxed, quite filled with contentment.
Her cheek resting on his pillow, she admitted to herself that she was in love with Christopher Saxon. And for some inexplicable reason this knowledge did not engender the horror and revulsion that it should have. Whatever the cost to herself, and no matter what heartache the future held, she could no longer deny it.
Almost shamefacedly she realized now that half her fury and dislike of Captain Saber had been a form of self-defense, an attempt to ignore the growing attraction she felt for him. Even taking sides against him with Allen had been only to hide from herself the uncertain yearnings of her heart.
A sad sort of smile flitting across her face, she shook her head as she remembered the other women that had loved him and the other nights of passion in his life. But last night was different, she thought fiercely. Frowning, she eyed his empty pillow. He had left her without any explanation. Resolutely she told herself that he wouldn't want his household buzzing with gossip that he had been found in her bed. The thought that he didn't want their liaison to be food for scandal comforted her somewhat.
She sat up and rang for Mauer, thrusting the covers aside. He wouldn't have departed yet if he was still holding to his original plan. She prayed most fervently that what had happened between them had changed his mind about the future.
After bathing hurriedly, with Mauer's help she slipped into a jonquil-yellow gown of soft muslin and dragged a brush quickly through her burnished-sable tresses. Impatiently she sat still only long enough for Mauer to thread a yellow silk ribbon through her shining curls.
Christopher must feel something for her—something beyond just the ordinary—she thought stubbornly. If after last night he treated her with cool contempt, she would absolutely hate him. Her feelings were too new, too fragile to bear rejection or even indifference. She needed reassurance, some little sign to let her know that last night had been special to him too.
Crossing the main hallway and seeing his baggage stacked neatly by the door, she quelled a sigh of relief. He hadn't gone yet, but the very sight of those packed bags was not propitious. He still meant to leave this morning, and she tried to convince herself that he would have an acceptable explanation—possibly he had not departed already because he was waiting to talk to her.
Nicole wanted passionately to believe that her sudden recognition of her love for him had engendered an equal recognition in him. She was ready to meet him more than halfway in any relationship that they might have. If he wanted her as his mistress she would accept it, knowing in time she could make him love her. But if he turned from her, she didn't think she would be able to bear such pain. She didn't want to hate him—she wanted most passionately to love him. And she was certain that he must feel something for her.
For a moment she stood in the hall, uncertain where to find him. Then as she took a hesitant step toward the library, Sanderson startled her by coming out of the dining room on the opposite side of the hallway.
Seeing her standing there, Sanderson said in greeting, "Good morning, Miss Nicole, you are up early indeed today!"
She flashed him an almost-happy smile and asked, "Have you seen Mr. Saxon? He hasn't left already, has he?"
"Oh, no! He won't be leaving for an hour or so yet. I've just served him breakfast. Will you join him?"
"Thank you, that's exactly what I'd like to do!"
As she came in a second later, Christopher looked up in surprise. She was looking exceptionally lovely this morning, he thought, a pretty flush in her cheeks, the bright sparkle in the topaz-dark eyes adding to her beauty. The jonquil-yellow gown brought out the gleaming hints of fire in the sable curls, and remembering that hair sprayed out across her pillow, he felt something tighten painfully deep inside.
An uncertain smile trembling on her lips, she walked slowly to her usual chair and shyly murmured, "Good morning," in Christopher's direction. Sanders
on poured her a cup of the strong chicory-flavored coffee Christopher preferred, and then he departed, presumably to see after her breakfast.
Alone, they stared at each other from the opposite ends of the table, and Nicole was suddenly horribly aware that she couldn't think of a thing to say. What did one say to a man after having shared the night with him—especially after a night like last night, and particularly to a man like Christopher?
Christopher was dressed in buckskins and top boots in anticipation of the trip up the river to New Orleans, and taking a surreptitious look at him, she saw with dismay that his face wore a closed, shut-in expression that filled her with dread. Yet when she noticed at the same time the heavy-eyed look that denoted a sleepless night, a pleased little smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. She knew what caused that lack of sleep!
It was a secretive, satisfied sort of smile that curved her lips. Christopher recognized it and could only remember that it was exactly the same kind of smile her mother had worn when she was especially delighted with something— Annabelle had worn it quite frequently in those days prior to Christopher's betrayal.
Staring grimly at the soft curve of her lips, he was suddenly enraged at how easily he might have fallen in the same trap again. But that smile reminded him vividly and painfully of something he preferred not to think of and harshly he snapped, "Something amuses you? I could use a good laugh this morning."
She was startled at his ugly and sarcastic tone, and her smile vanished. "I wasn't smiling at anything in particular. It's just a lovely morning," she said. Wary of his mood and not knowing what had angered him, she sipped her coffee, wishing there were some way that she could disperse the dangerous currents she sensed in the room.
But Christopher was not to be denied the argument he was spoiling for, and he asked nastily, "Do you always smile just because its a lovely morning? Must you sit at the end of my table simpering like some half-demented idiot!"
Nicole's cup clattered against her saucer, her volatile temper flaring like a summer storm. Trying not to start an argument, yet not willing to ignore his provocative manner, she inquired levelly, "Are you always in such a foul temper first thing in the morning?"
"Can't you remember, Nick? It isn't that long since we were on La Belle Garce. Surely a few weeks hasn't made you forget what I am like after a night of whoring!" He snarled the last words, his anger at himself driving him. He was beyond reasonable thought; all he could assimilate was that Annabelle's daughter sat there before him— Annabelle's daughter, lovely, possessing a beauty and warmth that would have outshone Annabelle's shallow shell as effortlessly as a diamond would eclipse a glass bead.
He was terrified—and unable to trust his instincts, for they had betrayed him once already. He was floundering, and at the same time furious—furious that Nicole had awakened emotions he thought long dead, and furious that he could not judge accurately whether these emotions were real or false. He wanted most intensely to regain his usual indifference to women and to convince himself that last night had not happened.
At his ugly words something snapped inside Nicole. Seeing her dreams destroyed, stunned by his word whoring, she erupted into the worst tantrum of her entire life. "How dare you!" she choked. She was vibrating with the force of her anger, literally scintillating with it, and without thinking, she closed her hand around the fragile china cup that she had so recently set down. With a cry of outrage she hurled it willy-nilly at Christopher's head.
He ducked and the cup missed him, but some of the hot coffee splashed him as the cup sailed by. He, too, leaped to his feet, and they faced each other across the long expanse of the white linen-covered table.
"That will be enough of that!" he thundered, his temper barely leashed.
And Nicole's lips curled in a sneer as she spat, "You think so? I haven't even started!" With that, the saucer whipped by his head, and he barely dodged the heavy silver-plated pepper mill that swiftly followed it. He was so astounded and at a loss that he wasn't quite quick enough to miss the deadly aim of the matching saltceller, and it struck him in the stomach like a kick from a mule.
Nicole's rage added to her strength. Encompassed by fury, she searched angrily for some other object to hurl at her tormentor. Her eyes alighted on the beautiful wrought-silver candelabrum that dominated the middle of the table, and with an oath that would have done one of the crew members proud, she hurled it in Christopher's direction. It missed its destination fortunately, but unfortunately it smashed into the wall just as Sanderson innocently walked into the room with Nicole's breakfast.
Nicole wasted no time and wrenched from the startled Sanderson the silver tray on which he carried her plate of eggs and bacon. With unerring aim she pitched it at Christopher. "Bastard!" she spat. The plate caught Christopher full in the chest, the eggs clinging to his shirt front until, rather gingerly, he flicked them off.
His eyes wide with disbelief, Sanderson watched Christopher casually dab with a napkin at the mess on his shirt and jacket. Calmly Christopher said, "You may leave now, Sanderson, Miss Nicole and I will finish with breakfast shortly."
Sanderson stared at Christopher, but he simply said, "As you wish, sir," and departed.
Silence reigned in the dining room. Christopher's calm words had pierced the red mist of Nicole's fury, and with slightly horrified eyes she surveyed the shambles.
Christopher eyed her warily. He had known spitfires before, but Nick undoubtedly took the prize. While one part of him was furious at her, another part of him was fighting with a desire to laugh. He didn't really blame Nick for her outburst. He had been on the prod for a fight from the moment he had awoken this morning and he had gotten it! And thinking of the ludicrous figure he cut, he asked, "Is the storm over or shall I run for cover?"
Nicole was ill. The fury had left her as quickly as it had come, and now she just wanted to crawl off someplace and die. Blindly she stumbled toward the door, but Christopher caught her arm. "Don't go, Nick," he said softly.
Her distress was so obvious that he was unaccountably moved. "Ah, Nick, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did." Smiling almost tenderly he continued, "I'm in the devil's own temper this morning, darling. Forget what I said just now and let's start again."
Nicole stared up at him consideringly, not trusting the coaxing note in his voice, or believing the warm light that flickered in his gold eyes. He had tricked her too many times in the past, and she couldn't forgive him for belittling something that had been a momentous occasion for her. Even though her first outburst of temper had abated, she was still very angry.
"No," she said quietly. "We won't start anew. You've made your attitude very clear. Things are exactly as they were yesterday afternoon. Last night was a mistake. You may be sure it won't happen again!"
Firmly she removed his arm and said politely as she walked to the door, "I hope you have a pleasant trip and I look forward to meeting Mrs. Eggleston—she was once a very good friend of mine." Then she was gone, leaving Christopher, his face pale and tight, gazing at the shut door with real dismay and not a little anger. He was left with the uncomfortable feeling that he had damaged something irretrievably. Uneasily he discovered that he wanted the chance to relive these past few minutes. But he quickly recovered himself and with an effort reminded himself of Annabelle's perfidies, and then with a spurt of temper he cursed all women—Nick most vehemently.
What was the matter with him? he mused later as the pirogue moved slowly upstream toward New Orleans. What the hell was happening to him? Nick was on his mind continually! And he discovered emotions he had thought slain by Annabelle's cruel actions awakening with a vengeance. He didn't want anyone to get behind the hard front that concealed the inner man. And he decided resolutely that he would set Nick at a distance. He was not going to be beguiled into falling in love with her, not at his age, and certainly not with her! During the remainder of the journey to New Orleans he proceeded to arm himself against Nick. Meticulously he erected in his mind a ver
y high, very cold barrier between them, and he was firmly convinced that he now had the situation well in hand.
Believing that, he was very pleased with himself when he went to call on Mrs. Eggleston that same afternoon. The Dumas family was gone for the day and Mrs. Eggleston was enjoying a respite from her willful charge. Miss Dumas had been particularly trying the past week, and Mrs. Eggleston was almost ready to sink her pride and take whatever Christopher had to offer.
Christopher's tale of Nicole's plight touched Mrs. Eggleston and she was eager to accept his employment.
She sat mesmerized as Christopher spun out his story of Nicole's adventure. "That Nicole Ashford!" she finally said with a twinkle in the faded blue eyes. "She was always a little hoyden. And while I am very shocked that any young lady of her impeccable background would do anything so unseemly, I must admit I am not surprised. She was made most unhappy by the deaths of her family, and her guardians, the Markhams, were not very kindhearted people. Certainly, I shall be most happy and more than willing to chaperon her."
Shaking her white head, with an approving eye on Christopher that made him decidedly uncomfortable, she continued, "You are so good! And Nicole is most fortunate that it was you who discovered her masquerade. How terrible it would have been if she had fallen into the hands of some unscrupulous monster who would have taken advantage of what was, I am positive, only childish rebellion."
Feeling even more uncomfortable and coming as close to squirming in his chair as was possible for one of his nature, Christopher brushed her compliments aside. "It was my privilege, and, I assure you, nothing of great magnitude."
"Oh, but Christopher!" she cried protestingly. "What if she had found herself in the clutches of someone who would have"—her voice dropping to a mere whisper of horror—"destroyed her innocence? It doesn't bear thinking of! She is most, most fortunate that you were the one. Anything could have happened to her!"