by Lady Vixen
The bath was sheer heaven. After the many weeks at sea, of making do with hurried saltwater sponge-downs, the hot fresh water was like paradise. Luxuriously Nicole submerged her slender body, delighting in the caress of the delicately scented water. Sighing with pleasure, she leaned back and, resting her head on the rim of the tub, decided it was almost worth going without a bath for weeks to have one feel this good. Eventually, though, the water began to cool, and after scrubbing herself from head to toe, she had Naomi help wash her hair.
Feeling cleaner and more relaxed than she had in weeks, Nicole sat wrapped in a large fluffy towel before the fire in her room, as Naomi patiently brushed and combed the long strands dry. The soothing constant motion of the brush nearly put her to sleep, and once the waving hair was dried to Naomi's satisfaction, Nicole decided to lay down for a while.
It was late afternoon by now. The dark sky promised more rain before the day ended, and the thought of stretching out on a real bed was more than Nicole could resist. She slept soundly, waking to a darkened and silent room some hours later. The thick feather mattress was like a cloud, and with a low purr of enjoyment Nicole snuggled back down into its welcoming softness, unwilling to leave the warmth and comfort. But Naomi's entrance just then, a lit candle in her hand, put all thought of sleep from Nicole's mind.
"Yes? What is it?" she asked.
"Oh, ma'am, I didn't mean to wake you! Master Christopher just wanted me to see if you were still asleep."
"You didn't wake me. I was just on the point of ringing for you," Nicole replied untruthfully.
Reassured that she had given no offense and deciding that waiting on Miss Nicole was going to be pleasant work indeed, Naomi lit the lamps and proceeded with ready skill to help her new mistress dress.
The gown laid out earlier was of soft worked muslin, in a particularly pleasing shade of pale green. It was a beautiful gown, but Nicole, thankful to be out of the hated bronze silk she had worn for the past several weeks, would have adored it if it had been made of cotton sacks.
The one item of clothing not left behind had been shoes, and staring at her bare feet peeping out from under the flounces of her skirt, she was reminded painfully and poignantly of that evening in Bermuda. How different my future might have been if I had followed Allen's advice, she thought regretfully. And again she wondered about Allen's fate. Christopher had promised he would be freed, and in this instance she wanted desperately to believe he had kept his word. There were bitterness and recriminations enough between them without having the added burden of Allen's death dividing them. Allen must be free—free and with the British. Deliberately Nicole closed her mind to any other explanation, unable to think of Christopher intentionally lying to her and coolly turning Allen over to the Americans to be hanged as a spy. There was a great deal she would believe of Christopher Saxon, but not that!
The problem of the lack of shoes was solved simply by wearing the slightly disreputable bronze silk slippers she had brought with her. A spangled shawl draped carelessly around her shoulders completed her attire, and after a brief glance at herself in the mirror, noting with satisfaction the clean shine to the gently waving locks, Nicole slowly descended the stairs to the main salon.
Christopher was there before her as she expected, but what she hadn't expected was the shaft of half pleasure, half pain that shot through her when she saw him standing casually before the fire, one arm resting on the creamy marble mantel.
Glancing up from his contemplation of the leaping flames, Christopher inquired politely, "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes. A genuine bed was something of a novelty after the accommodations provided by Captain Baker," Nicole replied evenly, not certain of herself or his mood.
He appeared very much at ease; his dark features were unreadable as she stared at him. Dressed in a pair of slim-fitting yellow pantaloons and an exquisitely cut coat of bottle green, he was enough to make any young woman's heart pound in her breast, and unfortunately Nicole was very much aware of his tall, hard body as he strode across the room and courteously offered her a chair by the fire. She hesitated, then deciding that she, too, could act as if there was nothing between them, graciously consented to be seated.
They were both stilted in their movements and conversation, both acting much in the manner of two strangers meeting for the first time. Civilly Christopher asked, "Would you care for a glass of sherry? I believe we have plenty of time until dinner is served."
Feeling like a stuffed doll, a painted inane smile on her lips, Nicole murmured quietly, "Yes. Sherry will be fine."
Christopher walked to the other end of the room, to where a tray with several crystal decanters was placed, and in silence poured out a small glass of the pale amber liquid. Still in silence he came to her side and handed the sherry to her, their fingers touching as the glass was placed in her outstretched hand. Both reacted as if stung; Christopher's hand abruptly fell away and Nicole's fingers nearly jerked the glass from his grasp.
The silence between them was uncomfortable; both were almost unbearably aware of the other, each waiting for the other to make the first move, to say the first word. Neither did.
The silence was like a third presence in the elegant room; the crack and pop of the fire burning brightly on the hearth echoed in the uncomfortable quietness, intensifying the silence. As the moments passed, Nicole shifted uneasily on her chair and, for something to do, cautiously sipped the sherry, not really wanting it.
Christopher had returned to his position by the fire; his profile was presented to her as, apparently ignoring her, he once again seemed fascinated by the leaping yellow and orange flame. A half-finished snifter of brandy stood on the mantel. As Nicole watched him, noting idly the way his blue-black hair seemed to curl more crisply in damp weather, he reached for the snifter and in one motion tossed the contents down. Straightening, he turned to look directly at her.
With a quizzical smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he asked mockingly, "Well? Don't you have anything to say? I've been waiting these past moments for that scathing tongue of yours to annihilate me. Don't tell me you have lost the power of speech. Come now, expectorate your spleen, as I'm certain you have been longing to do for weeks!"
Nicole stiffened, her topaz eyes beginning to flash with ready temper. With difficulty she controlled the strongest urge to do exactly as he said, but instead she said levelly, "Railing against you will gain me nothing. I have, I hope, outgrown some of my foolishness, and losing my temper is one thing I have no intention of doing, despite the provocation."
One thick black eyebrow flew up derisively. "For the moment I'll take your word for it," Christopher replied dryly. "But I'm sure you do have something to say. Some condemnation of my conduct?"
Nicole stood up and very deliberately placed her unfinished glass on a nearby table. "Yes, I have something to say, but more to the point I have a question to ask. May I?" she inquired sarcastically. At Christopher's curt nod, she requested bluntly, "What do you plan to do with me?"
From the bronze slippers on her feet to the top of her head Christopher's eyes traveled over her, almost caressingly, halting for a brief second on the high bosom, the fiery gleam of the dark hair, before finally coming back and stopping on her full mouth. "Oh, I can think of several plans for you, my dear," he murmured, "but I doubt you would agree with them." His eyes still on her mouth, he walked over to her, standing so close that there were barely inches between their bodies. "I want you, Nicole," he muttered honestly. "I want you as I have never wanted any woman I have ever known." The gold eyes were bright with sudden desire as he said quickly, "You were willing to be Robert's mistress, so why not mine?"
As Nicole stood frozen with icy anger before him, he continued rashly, "I gave you your chance to lead a respectable life. I saw you safely launched into society, but no, that wasn't what you wanted. Oh, no! You were willing to throw it all away just to become Robert's plaything. Well, my dear, you'll be much better off as my plaything than R
obert's. Believe me, I shall be extremely generous with you—your own house on the ramparts, your own carriage, servants, anything you like. Just name your price."
The topaz eyes, like two great golden-brown jewels in her pale face, shimmered with anger, as she spat, "You overestimate your charm! If I were dying and you had the gift of life, my answer would still be the same—absolutely not! Be your mistress? Ha! I would rather whore along Tchoupitoulas Street, submitting to any man who wanted me, than to suffer your embrace!"
Christopher's jaw went taut, his lips thinned as angrily he reached for her. "So you say, madame!" he snarled against her mouth. "So you say, but your body tells me something different!"
Brutally his mouth closed over hers, forcing her Hps apart. His arms tightened unyieldingly around her, instantly awakening memories of other times in his arms, of other moments shared between them. If he had continued to kiss her in such a cruel manner she might have been able to resist him, but as if sensing that sheer force would avail him nothing, Christopher's mouth slackened its painful assault and began to move gently across hers, urging and yet demanding an answer to his rising passion.
Feeling the familiar curl of desire swirling in her stomach, Nicole fought desperately against it, for once determined not to allow him to sweep her into his dark power. But Christopher was too much for her; his hands tightened around her waist, drawing her nearer to the warmth of his body, making her physically aware even through the restraint of their clothing of how much he did indeed want her. His hands left her waist, gently exploring her hips, traveling up her slender spine in one long exquisitely tantalizing caress; his lips, warm and desire-drugging, were still locked on hers, and Nicole felt what control she had slipping.
Christopher, blind to anything but the desire scorching his veins, oblivious to the battle raging within the woman in his arms, drew her gently and inexorably down on the sofa near the fire, his hands instinctively finding the silken flesh beneath the muslin gown. At the touch of his hand on her thigh Nicole gave an anguished moan, wanting him to take her with every fiber of her being, yet knowing if she did, she was lost. Fighting against herself as much as Christopher, frantically Nicole twisted beneath him, seeking vainly to escape the well of desire into which she was falling. The movements of her body only heightened Christopher's compelling urge to know once again the ecstasy of joining his body with hers, making him kiss her with deepening urgency.
Christopher stiffened at a sudden knock on the door. With a muffled curse he sat up and demanded, "Yes, who is it?"
"Sanderson," was the calm reply. "Dinner is served, sir."
Standing up and straightening his clothes, Christopher snapped, "Very well. We shall be right there." Turning to Nicole, he muttered half teasingly, half angrily, "It appears that this interesting conversation, too, will have to wait until later! Are you ready?"
Not looking at him, with a hand that trembled she rearranged her skirts and said in a voice that only shook slightly, "For dinner, yes!"
Christopher grinned at her. "But, my dear, what else?"
Resisting the urge to slap his face, Nicole walked stiffly to the carved doors that led to the main hall, allowing Christopher to open the doors for her, her hand resting correctly on his arm.
She and Christopher conversed with ridiculous politeness during dinner—partly because of Sanderson's hovering presence and partly because neither could think of anything to say . . . except something totally outrageous and provoking. Both, though, had their minds on the evening ahead, and perhaps that explained why the cook was slightly disappointed at the amount of food returned to the kitchen.
After dinner, feeling replete, yet tingling with wariness, Nicole demurely allowed herself to be led back to the salon they had occupied before dinner. Seated on the sofa that had nearly been her undoing, she accepted with pleasure the demitasse cup of sweet black coffee that Sanderson offered from an ornate silver tray. Not so Christopher; with a careless hand he waved the butler away, preferring instead a snifter of brandy.
Dinner had been a time of truce, an uneasy truce, but a truce nonetheless. And Christopher made that perfectly clear the second the door closed behind Sanderson. "Well?" he asked peremptorily. "My proposition still stands. And now that you have had a few moments in which to consider it, don't try to fob me off with the usual feminine prattle that you need time to think!"
It was an unfair attack—both knew that Nicole had never even consented to think over his offer. Her eyes gleaming with resentment, the soft mouth hardening with resolution, she snapped, "There was never any question of my considering your less-than-respectable proposal! I told you then and I'll tell you now—I will not become your mistress!"
Her bosom heaving with agitation, she stood up abruptly, and her voice was shaking with suppressed emotion as she continued hotly, "I am surprised you even want such a depraved creature as myself near you! After all, I am so without gratitude that I would turn my back on the very agreeable life you had arranged for me, insult the hospitality of your grandfather, align myself with a man unworthy of the name, a man who was my own mother's lover!" The topaz eyes shimmering with unshed tears, the full red mouth trembling with the effort to hold back those same tears, she cried in anguish and anger, "Oh, yes! Let us not forget that I am my mother's daughter! And we both know what she was like—a liar, a betrayer, and an adulteress! And, Christopher, I promise you —if you force me to I shall show you exactly how like my mother I can be! For God's sake let me go! Give me the passage back to England! Send me away from you so that we both can find peace."
Christopher whitened at her words. Bitterly he snarled, "I cannot. I have thought of all that you say—it has torn me apart day after day, night after night! But let you go, I cannot!" It was an admission he had not wanted to make, an admission he had tried to hide from himself. And furious that he had given her, as he thought, another weapon over him, with a jerky movement he swallowed the brandy in one long gulp. Slamming the empty snifter down on the mantel so hard that it splintered, without another word he stalked swiftly across the room to the door, his anger and rage apparent in every step he took. Standing with his hand on the door, he glanced back at Nicole standing frozen by the sofa; then there was just the banging of the door as he departed. That look he sent her the last moment before hurling out the door was one of such loathing and fury that she recoiled from it, and yet, and yet, for just a moment there had been a flicker deep in that golden gaze of something, something like . . . like...
Tossing on her bed that night, again and again Nicole relived those tense, revealing moments, unable to believe that he had said what he had. To know that Christopher, too, felt that invisible bond between them was encouraging, but that he also hated and resented it bitterly was very obvious. What am I to do, she thought unhappily. Stay? Hope that in time he will come to love me, if he is even capable of love? Or continue to fight against him, try to make him understand that we are better off apart? But would you be? her mind whispered insidiously.
Her dilemma was unanswerable. Prudence, common sense, past experience, and a lively sense of self-preservation clearly dictated that she flee. But her heart, never a very reliable organ, twisted from the idea of deliberately cutting him away from her.
Restless, heartsick, undecided, and bedeviled, she gave up the pretense of sleep and left her bed. Barefooted, wearing only a thin, nearly transparent nightdress of cream-colored cambric, she prowled around her room. The fire had nearly died, and for something to do she added a few small logs from the tidy pile laid to one side of the hearth, stirring and blowing on the glowing embers until the fire caught and began to flicker and leap with a life of its own. The room was in darkness except for the shimmering of the flames as they danced and painted shadows on the walls. A faint gleam of moonlight crept through the shuttered windows, and as she pulled the wooden shutters aside she discovered a full silvery moon high overhead. The rain had stopped once again, but the dampness and wet lingered, tickling Nicole's nose
as she took a deep breath.
Sighing, she turned back to her bed, knowing that sleep would not visit her this night. Sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up under her chin, her hands clasped lightly around her ankles, she stared blankly at the fire. What was she to do? She had no money of her own. She had no place to go. England was far away, too far to offer an immediate solution to her problem. Dismally she acknowledged that as long as she loved Christopher Saxon there never was going to be a solution to her dilemma.
She had never stopped loving him, she admitted sadly. Yes, she had tried to convince herself otherwise, but there was no denying that she had fooled only herself, herself and her foolish heart. Whatever he was—brutal, arrogant, one minute tender, the next savage—she unfortunately loved him. What was she going to do about it?
Surprisingly, considering the state of her heart, she longed most desperately to leave. There was nothing that she could see to be gained by staying except more heartache, more disillusionment. Christopher would never love her. He wanted her, that she would not deny, but wanting had little to do with love, and love was what she wanted most.
She bit back a half-hysterical giggle when she thought of the expression on his face if she were to say, "Love me! Want me not only with your body, but with your heart as well. Love me, damn you!"
But what was the use? She wasn't even certain in her own heart that she could forgive everything that had passed between them—especially his latest high-handed actions. Then she smiled cynically; there she went again, fooling herself. As much as she wished to pretend otherwise, if Christopher lifted one finger, gave her one indication that he wanted more than just a warm body in his bed, she would fling aside all the doubts, the bitterness, the past, everything and leap willy-nilly into his arms. She loved him, goddamnit!