Amanda Rose

by Karen Robards

  “Oh, God, Amanda.” He thrust into her so hard then that she feared he must split her in two, then held himself inside her while a long shudder racked him. Amanda moaned in shame; he seemed to like that because his hands released hers to close about her, hugging her tightly to him. Amanda lay unmoving beneath him, stiff with anger and revulsion. It was some little time before at last Matt eased himself away from her.

  chapter thirteen

  “Christ, I’m sorry.” Matt was lying beside her, leaning over her, his head propped on one hand while his other hand made a tentative gesture as though to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Amanda turned her face away from him, stonily regarding the wall, wishing with all the strength left in her that she could reach her night rail, a blanket, anything to shield her body from his eyes. Whereas before the thought of being naked with him had been oddly exciting, now it made her cringe.

  “Amanda.” His voice was insistent; his hand was insistent, too, as it captured her chin and forced her to look at him. His eyes flickered as they took in her mouth swollen from his kisses and the tear stains on her cheeks.

  “You hurt me.” The words were bitter, accusing.

  Matt winced. “I know—I’m sorry.” He let go of her chin gently to brush away the tears that still dangled from her lashes. Amanda jerked her face away from him, and he dropped his hand. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world, Amanda. But—I lost control.”

  “It was horrible.”

  He flinched. “It’s always painful for a girl her first time, Amanda. But the next time, there won’t be any pain, I promise.”

  “The next time.” An almost hysterical laugh burst from her throat. “There never will be a next time—I hated it.”

  “And me?” The question was very quiet.

  “What?”

  “Before, you said you loved me. Have you changed your mind?”

  Amanda stared up at him. He looked so big and dark, looming over her with the moon just touching his shoulder, making her shudderingly aware of his nakedness and strength, of the sinewy muscles of his shoulders and arms, of the thick black pelt that covered his chest and more—and of the thing that had done its best to rend her in two. It wasn’t quite as hard and angry-looking now, she noticed before she jerked her eyes away.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” To tell the truth, she didn’t know what she felt. At the time, she had been more certain of her love for him than she had ever been of anything in her life. But now—now she didn’t know. And she didn’t feel able to analyze her emotions at the moment.

  “I see.” He levered himself off the bed, uncaring of his nakedness, and reached for his trousers.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To sleep somewhere else, as I would have done earlier. Only, if I remember correctly, you wouldn’t let me.” There was bitter mockery in his voice. Amanda sat up, folding her arms over her breasts and raising her knees to her chin in an instinctive gesture of modesty, and glared at him. Her reward was a scornful glance as he turned his attention to fastening his trousers.

  “That’s an ungentlemanly thing to suggest.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m stating the plain truth, and you know it. You’ve been wanting me to make love to you for days. Haven’t you heard the old saying about being careful what you wish for because you just might get it? Well, you wished for it—and you got it. I am not a monster who forced you to do something you didn’t want to do.”

  “I didn’t want to—you know I didn’t. I tried to stop you.”

  He was shrugging into his shirt, closing the buttons with one hand as his mouth curled derisively at her.

  “Only when it was too late, Amanda. Don’t delude yourself. You were deliriously happy until the very end—until you decided that making love wasn’t pleasurable anymore and you wanted to stop. Next time I suggest you pick a partner as callow as yourself. He just might manage to oblige you.”

  “Get out of here.” Hurt and disillusionment combined with outrage at his remarks to make her furious. Her voice shook as she hurled the words at him. If she’d had anything to throw, she would have thrown it. As it was, hampered by the need to keep her arms over her breasts, she could only kill him with her eyes.

  “I’ll leave—immediately.” He bent to pick up his shoes and hose, then padded barefoot toward the door. When he reached it, he turned to look at her. Even at that distance she could see the cold glint in his eyes and the hard set of his mouth. “Aren’t you curious about where I’m going? There are quite a few people looking for me, remember. Or don’t you care, now that you’ve found that your new toy isn’t quite as much fun as you thought?”

  “How dare you say that to me. You . . .” Indignation strangled her, and he cut her off smoothly.

  “I’ll tell you so you won’t worry.” The taunting voice made her long to scratch out his eyes. “I’m going back to the cave. Oh, yes, it’s safe: I saw the smugglers’ lights from the window earlier. By now they should have retrieved their cargo and gone. There’s no need to distress yourself about what might happen to me.”

  “I don’t give a damn what happens to you.” The words fell far short of expressing the full extent of her rage. He had no right to say such things to her—and, anyway, why was he so angry? She was the one who had been hurt and shamed; she was the one who should be angry—and she was. “It would serve you right if they did catch you. Perhaps you’ve been lying to me and you really did kill those people. Hanging’s probably too good for you, you . . . you . . .

  “Don’t you know a word that’s vulgar enough?” His voice was harsh with mockery. “What a pity. I shall have to teach you some.”

  “Oh.” This time she did throw something: her pillow. She snatched it and hurled it straight at his head. He caught it deftly in one hand, laughed shortly, and threw it back at her. Amanda clutched it with both hands as he left the room.

  She glared at the closed door for some little time, curiously aware of feeling almost as hurt as she was angry. In the short time she had known him, Matt had become her dearest friend in the world, her father, brother, and confidant. Now he was her lover as well—and that had changed everything. She had trusted him implicitly, and he had hurt her. She had loved him, and he had responded by taking her body with an animalistic passion that still made her shudder to remember. He had said he’d lost control, but she had no idea what that meant. He had also said that it would be better the next time. Not that she intended a next time, but might he be right? Surely men couldn’t force such a disgusting, degrading act on their wives for years if each time the hapless female suffered as she had tonight. Or maybe they could. In her experience most men were selfish at best, and would have little compunction about hurting a woman if in the process they themselves were pleasured.

  One of her problems was resolved, however: now that she knew for certain exactly what the marriage act entailed, she would never consent to marry Lord Robert. If she had found Matt, who was certainly handsome and usually kind, bestial in his passion, how much worse it would be with someone like Lord Robert, whose plump body and slack mouth nauseated her. If she were honest, she would have to admit she had enjoyed the touch of Matt’s hands, and the touch of his mouth as well. In fact, she had enjoyed everything he did to her—more than enjoyed it—until that final, unexpected possession had changed everything. She had never in her wildest dreams imagined that he would do that . . . Was that the way it was always done? If so, how did women stand it?

  Amanda looked down at her nakedness, at the pale gleam of her breasts and belly and thighs, and wondered what there was about them that could make a normally very controlled man go wild as Matt had tonight. At the end, when he had plunged endlessly into her softness, she knew that he had had no thought of her. His one desire was to take what he wanted from her defenseless body . . .

  There were brown smears on her thighs. Looking more closely, Amanda touched the drying spots and discovered to her horror that they were blood. For a be
wildered moment she thought that Matt’s wound must have broken open during the act and bled on her without her being aware of it, and then she realized that the blood was hers. She was bleeding. From the pain she had experienced she had guessed that he had injured her in some way, and now she had proof of it.

  Panicked and furious, she got up off the bed to dab at the blood with a damp cloth. She wished that he were present so she could show him what he had done to her. Then it came to her that he already knew. Of course, this was her virgin’s blood, her proof of purity meant to be proudly displayed before her husband on the morning after their wedding. Susan and the other girls had told her of this secret symbol of innocence, but she had never understood just how one produced blood on demand, or how that blood could prove anything at all. Now she realized that the man made his bride bleed by roughly tearing through her delicate tissues. How horrible, she thought, shuddering. Then the thought came to her that she was no longer a virgin and thus no longer eligible to become the bride of a respectable man. If anyone found out, she would be a social outcast, like Susan. Amanda felt a hard knot form in her stomach as she realized just what it was that she had done.

  At least she no longer had to worry about being a wanton, she thought with a humorless smile. If nothing else, tonight’s debacle had settled her doubts on that score. She hated the thing that men and women did together and had no desire to repeat it. Her father’s blue blood must have prevailed.

  By the time she had cleaned herself and was respectably clad in a fresh night rail, and had sponged the bloodstains from the sheet, she was as exhausted as she was heartsick. At least she didn’t seem to be bleeding any longer, and she thanked God for small mercies. She hoped that He would not condemn her utterly for what she had done. However much she might wish to do so, she knew that she could not put all the blame on Matt for what had happened between them tonight. Susan had been forced to yield her virginity and thus, in the eyes of God, at least, was guiltless. She herself had been a willing, nay, an eager participant, at least until the very end. She had allowed Matt to take off her clothes, to touch and kiss her—had wanted him to, in fact. Would she burn in hell forever for that?

  Her eyes were so heavy she could barely keep them open. Murmuring a brief plea for forgiveness, she threw the discarded covers on the bed and crawled beneath them. Perhaps things would look better in the morning; they could hardly look worse . . . Almost before her head touched the pillow she was asleep. Matt’s dark face was the last image to float across her mind.

  The next morning she overslept. No sooner had she become groggily aware of sunbeams slanting across her face than someone began shaking her shoulder. For one brief, happy moment she thought it was Matt. Then she remembered what had happened between them the night before, and realized that it wasn’t likely to be him: he was angry at her for some reason she still didn’t properly fathom. Besides, the small, soft hand shaking her so insistently could in no way be mistaken for Matt’s hard grip . . .

  “Amanda, wake up.” It was Susan who was shaking her, Amanda discovered as she opened her eyes. “Mother Superior wants us all to come downstairs at once. The constable is here, and he’s brought some of the local militia with him. They believe that there has been a man living here secretly, and now they’re going to search the convent. Amanda, they think the man is that murderer, Matthew Grayson.”

  “Oh, no.” Amanda sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide with alarm as she stared at Susan’s excited face. Just in time she kept herself from blurting out anything more revealing. At all costs, she had to keep her wits about her to protect Matt. At the thought of their finding him and dragging him off to be hanged, Amanda felt her skin pale. Despite everything—the pain and shame he had caused her last night and the angry words later—she had to save him if she could . . .

  “Yes, can you believe it?” Susan sounded almost awed. “They actually think that he’s been hiding out here, at our convent. Of course, it’s probably all a hum, but wouldn’t it be exciting if it turned out to be true? Just think of it, a mass murderer skulking through the halls at night, hiding in the shadows . . . Why, he could have killed any of us.” She shivered theatrically.

  Amanda surveyed her friend with a jaundiced eye as she swung ler legs from beneath the covers and got out of bed. “You’ve been reading too many novels, Susan,” she said tartly.

  “I have not. You know we’re not allowed to read novels.” Susan sounded affronted. Amanda crossed to the washstand and splashed her face with water. Looking at her reflection, she was relieved to see that the bruise just below her cheekbone was not as noticeable as she had feared. It was nothing more than a faint, dark smudge. Susan hadn’t even noticed it.

  “Just because Becky’s sister sent her Glenarvon,” Susan continued a shade sulkily. Amanda wasn’t listening. How could the authorities have found out about Matt? she wondered feverishly as she began to dress quickly. If the sisters or the girls had somehow discovered that she had been hiding him, she felt sure they would have let her know at once. But perhaps not. This was such a serious matter that Mother Superior may have felt that it could be properly handled only by the constable and his men. Perhaps they knew everything, even had Matt already in custody, and were waiting downstairs until she appeared so that they could arrest her, too.

  At the thought of being arrested and imprisoned, perhaps even beaten and tortured, as Matt had been, Amanda felt sick to her stomach. But Matt’s fate would be even more horrible: he would be killed. At the thought of that long, strong body dangling at the end of a rope, his handsome face swollen and blackened, she was afraid for one hideous moment that she might throw up. And how would she explain that?

  “You’re doing up the buttons of your dress wrong: you’ve missed one,” Susan said, breaking into her thoughts. Amanda silently said “damn,” then struggled to undo what she had done. But it was difficult to match the tiny buttons behind her back properly when her hands were none too steady, and her heart felt as if it would pound through her chest at any moment. Susan saw her difficulty and clucked with disgust, then came over to help her with the recalcitrant buttons.

  “Are you all right? You’re sweating and your hands are shaking,” Susan observed with concern. Amanda rolled her eyes heavenward—a gesture that Susan, who was standing behind her, couldn’t see—and did her best to get a stern grip on herself. It would never do to arouse suspicion where none existed—if she was lucky.

  “I-I think I’m coming down with something,” Amanda improvised, thinking wryly that her association with Matt had certainly improved her ability to lie convincingly. “That’s why I overslept. My head aches, and my stomach feels rather queasy.” Which was true, for the exigencies of this dangerous situation had, in fact, caused her symptoms.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Perhaps you should go back to bed. I’ll tell Mother that you’re ill. I’m sure she won’t object if you don’t come down in that case.”

  “No.” At her vehemence, Susan looked puzzled. Her buttons securely fastened, Amanda stepped away from her friend and began to brush her hair with hasty strokes. “I don’t feel that bad. And I wouldn’t want to miss the excitement,” she tacked on, hoping the excuse sounded more reasonable to Susan than it did to herself.

  Apparently it did. Susan didn’t say anything else as Amanda began to braid her hair, thinking once again what a nuisance the thick mass was. But today it was especially annoying. She had to get downstairs as quickly as possible, so that she could determine more accurately what was going on. If the constable and his men didn’t really know anything but were just here on a suspicion, she could slip away and warn Matt. Yes, she must warn him; if they were searching the convent, the cave would no longer be safe. Under the influence of all the excitement, someone was bound to remember its existence. She had to let Matt know, give him a chance to escape . . .

  “Hurry up, Amanda. We’re going to miss everything,” Susan said impatiently. Amanda thrust pins into her hastily coiled hair, wincing b
riefly as one impaled her scalp. She had to go to Matt . . .

  “I’m ready.”

  Susan needed no urging. Amanda took a deep, steadying breath and followed her friend out the door.

  The large front hall was so full of people that it resembled the square of the nearby town of Penzance on market day. Scarlet-coated militiamen milled about under the apparent direction of the heavy-set constable, whose plain buff coat and brown breeches set him apart from the men who were nominally under his command. The nuns in their black habits stood like a flock of crows near the entrance to the dining hall, watching the giggling, gray-clad girls as if they were so many kernels of corn. Apparently the girls weren’t to be allowed to associate with the men.

  “Come down, girls,” Mother Superior called up to Amanda and Susan, who had stopped halfway down the stairs to stare at the unusual spectacle with wide eyes. When they had obediently joined the group of ladies, Mother Superior said to the constable, “You may proceed, Mr. Ives. But allow me to say that I think this affair is ridiculous.” Her voice was stiff with disapproval.

  “Sorry, Mother. We received word from an unnamed source that that fellow Grayson has been hiding here, and we must make a search. It’s our duty, ma’am.” Sweating with discomfort, his round face turning beet red, the constable turned to his men with palpable relief.

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” he bellowed; then, with a sideways glance at Mother Superior, whose usually serene face expressed unmistakable outrage, he muttered, “Don’t upset things any more than you have to, men.”

  As she watched the soldiers disperse in a somewhat haphazard manner—they seemed to go just where they liked, with no direction that she could perceive—Amanda’s tense muscles relaxed slightly. It was clear they hadn’t an inkling that she had helped Matt, and they weren’t even sure that he was or had been in the convent. “An unnamed source” had told them to search the convent, and so they were. But if they found nothing, which they would with just a bit of divine intervention, they would go away again, and Matt would be safe—and, not so incidentally, so would she. But she had to manage to sneak away to warn Matt . . .