“Good night, Claudia.”
The impressively handsome couple made their way out to the waiting coach. Tanner had already mounted to the driver’s seat, while Bundy waited beside the door of the conveyance and anxiously shifted his weight from foot to foot. When the couple were settled within, the man climbed to the top and, cradling a heavy blunderbuss in his arm, wrapped a heavy blanket about himself to ward off the piercing chill; then Tanner clucked to the horses, shook the reins, and the coach moved away.
The night was quiet, as it often is when the snow falls soft and gentle. The hushed, blanketed world of dark and virgin white enclosed them in a silken void where the only sounds were the muffled hoofbeats and the slight creaking and groaning of the carriage as it progressed through the deepening snow. The lanterns cast dim orbs of light into the night on either side of the coach, barely penetrating the heavy snowfall.
Inside, another pair of twin lanterns gave off their own fragile light as Erienne huddled in the corner of the rear seat, bracing herself against the sway. In the opposite seat Christopher pulled his cloak close about him and turned up the collar to ward off the chill. Avoiding his gaze, Erienne sat forward and pushed aside the velvet curtain for a moment to observe the downward flight of the huge, gold-washed crystal flakes that drifted through the pale lantern light. Settling back, she spread the thick fur robe over her skirts, channeling the heat of the warming pan upon her.
It was not long before Christopher gave up his struggle to find some warmth, and with a low grunt of dissension, left his place and his cloak and moved into the seat beside her. He lifted the robe and pulled it over his legs. After tucking it securely about them, he leaned back and silently dared his companion to object.
Erienne was uneasy with his boldness, and it passed through her mind that if Lord Saxton had given thought to the night’s chill, he would have planned better and sent along another robe. Her worries burgeoned when Christopher placed his arm along the back of the seat. He met her wary gaze until she turned away, then he leisurely admired the soft blush on the creamy skin of her cheeks, the slim, straight nose, and the delicately formed lips, which seemed to beckon the touch of his own. He watched her as one might observe a trembling, dew-laden rose, awed by its delicate beauty.
The dark, heavy lashes fluttered downward self-consciously as he continued to stare, and Erienne knew a pleasure in the moment that was truly strange in her world. He had played the gentleman throughout most of the evening, and the thoughts of his gallantry burned like a well-banked fire at the core of her contentment. The night was hushed and still around them, and she was snug and safe from the world outside. No threat seemed imminent.
The coach jolted, and Christopher’s hand fell to her shoulder. She glanced at him and found nothing more intimidating than a slightly perplexed and thoughtful frown on his face. The warmth and comfort of her place made her drowsy, and she leaned her head back in the crook of his elbow. It lay there naturally, like a bird that had found its nest. With half-closed eyes, she saw him reach to turn down the wick of the lantern closest to her, and in a dreamlike state viewed the ebbing flame until it went out.
His long fingers came back to lay alongside her jaw and slowly turn her face to his. His shadow, cast by the far lamp, covered her, and then his lips were upon hers, moving slowly and fanning fires that she had never guessed were even kindled. Her hand crept up to caress his corded neck above the stock, then as some semblance of reality returned, it pressed against his chest, pushing him away. As she gasped for breath, it was he who turned away and sat frowning angrily at the other wall of the coach. The pounding of her heart refused to slow, and she reviewed the condition of her mind as if from a distance. If not held in check by her struggling will, her trembling hands might have urged him back. Such a simple kiss it was. Surely no great disaster could have come of it, but she knew the ice was thin and must be tenderly trod lest she find herself adrift in a raging sea of no return.
Erienne tried to raise herself upright, but her shoulders were still entrapped by his arm. It tightened about her, and he came back to her without hesitation. His mouth was suddenly there upon hers, insisting, stirring, demanding that she answer yea or nay. And yet she could not say yea, for she was bound to another. Neither could she speak the word nay, for this was the very moment she had yearned would come.
Her reply came as light as the touch of dew in spring. Neither yea nor nay, but her mind cried with agonized yearning, Oh, my love, please don’t go away.
Christopher saw the answer, middle ground as it was, felt it in the almost indistinct turning of her lips beneath his, the slightest yielding of the hand that rested on his chest. He slipped an arm about her waist, bringing her closer to him as his kiss deepened. Her cloak fell away, tumbling unnoticed to the seat behind her.
She shivered as his mouth left hers and traced a molten path over her cheek, her brow, and then paused to press gently against the fragile eyelids, which flickered downward and waited for his touch. He nuzzled aside the sweet-scented tresses and, finding her ear, touched it lightly with his tongue.
A throbbing pressure grew in the man’s loins. He had played out his hand with patience, but now it was waning before the tumult of his passions. His concern for her timidity dwindled apace with his growing need, and his hand came up to cup the fullness of her breast.
A shocked gasp caught in Erienne’s throat, and she came upright, pushing at his chest with both hands and striking away the brand that seared her. She held him at arm’s length and confronted him in a breathless whisper, “You press yourself beyond the bounds of propriety, sir! You gave your word!”
“Aye, madam, that I did,” he whispered back. “But listen well, my love, and mark the bounds.” He leaned closer. “Sweet Erienne, the ball is over.”
His arm cradled her head as she stared at him aghast, and then his lips smothered hers. Her flurry of protests diminished to a moan of despair. Or was it rapture?
His hand came back, and this time her arms were entrapped by his enveloping embrace. Beneath the silken confines of her bodice, her nipple grew taut beneath his stroking thumb. The heat of his caress flared through her, setting fire to every nerve. The top of the sleeve bit into her shoulder, and she gave to ease the pressure. There was a slight tugging behind her back, and her bodice fell loose. Her eyes flew wide as he freed the swelling fullness of her breasts, and then her senses erupted in a fiery blaze as his hand brushed away the chemise and moved upon her naked flesh. She turned away in a feeble attempt to escape his passion and to cool her own inflamed desires, but he followed, drawing her back and half lifting her against him. The cry that came to her throat became another moan that was taken from her by his kiss. His parted lips slanted across hers and devoured their sweetness with a ferocity that gave evidence of his starved senses. The kiss was relentless in its demand, searching out the dark, honeyed cavern of her mouth, stroking her nerves awake with each flick of his tongue, and setting her whole being aflame with its warmth.
“Sweet, darling love,” he breathed, pressing ardent kisses upon her trembling mouth, “I want you so. Yield to me, Erienne.”
“Nay, Christopher, I cannot!”
He pulled back and looked down at her, letting his eyes sweep the flushed cheeks and the golden orbs of her breasts. “Then speak a lie, madam, and say you want no part of me.”
Though her mouth opened, no words formed, and she could only stare up at him, helplessly caught in the web of her own desires. Slowly he leaned forward and replaced his lips upon hers to possess their softness leisurely and languidly. He met no resistance, and with a sighing moan Erienne let him press her back upon the fur robe crumpled beneath her shoulders. Their mouths melded in warm communion, turning, twisting, devouring, until their needs became a greedy search for more. Passions flared, and their hunger grew, mounting on soaring wings. He muttered hoarse, unintelligible words as he pressed fevered kisses along her throat, sending her world toppling into a chaos of sensation. The w
hite-hot heat of his mouth on a rose-hued peak was a sudden shock that made her catch her breath. Her lips parted, but she did not call out as the licking fires consumed her. Beyond her will, her hands caressed his shoulder, and her fingers threaded through the darkly burnished hair that ended in wispy waves at his nape.
His arm slipped around her knees and lifted her legs across his. She gave a small gasp as his hand found its way unerringly beneath her skirts and stroked upward along a bare thigh.
“Christopher, you cannot do this,” she whispered in desperation. “I belong to another.”
“You belong to me, Erienne. From the first, you have been mine.”
“I belong to him,” she protested weakly, but Christopher’s lips came back to hover over hers. A tremor went through her as his hand claimed the softness of her, touching her where no other had ever dared. The eyes above her own glowed intently as his caresses grew purposefully bolder. She caught her breath and stared at him in surprise as the strange sensations leapt through her, setting her whole being on fire, and she writhed, unable to stop her cartwheeling world. A shivering shudder went through her as she curled against him, and she felt his lips against her hair, heard her name hoarsely whispered.
A thump on the top of the carriage made them start. Christopher pulled away slightly, reaching out to turn down the wick in the lantern, then his hand moved to push aside the velvet curtain. Through the falling flakes, the wan glow of the tower lights of Saxton Hall could be seen on a distant hill. Dropping the shade, he released his breath in a halting sigh and straightened, pulling her up with him.
“ ’Twould seem, madam, that we must continue this at another time,” he stated. “We’re almost home.”
Shaken to the core of her being, Erienne would not meet his eyes as she hurriedly fumbled with her bodice. She turned aside to hide her nakedness from him, but his hands, came to assist, fastening the catches of her gown.
“I’ll be staying the night at the hall,” he breathed, dropping a kiss upon her nape.
She gasped and moved away, casting a quick, nervous glance at him as she pleaded, “Go away, Christopher. I beg you. Please go away.”
“I have a matter to discuss with you, madam, and it must be said tonight. I will come to your chamber…”
“No!” She shook her head passionately, fearful of what might happen if he came to her again. She had escaped this moment, not entirely unscathed, but nevertheless a virgin. That state, however, was most tenuous and could not withstand another full-fledged attack of his ardor. “I will not let you in, Christopher! Go away!”
“Very well, madam.” He seemed to measure his words carefully. “I shall try to restrain myself until the morrow, then we will have this matter out, and you will be mine before the day is done.”
She stared at him aghast, realizing he meant every word he said. The coach gave a last shudder as it came to a halt, seeming to mirror the one that went through her. He would have no pity on her, and he would damn anyone who stood in his way. She could not let it happen!
Chapter Sixteen
BUNDY opened the carriage door, and Erienne did not wait for the step to be set in place before she scrambled out, unaided by both men. It was as if a demon with spurs of pure panic rode astride her shoulders and drove her on. She fairly flew toward the stalwart portal of Saxton Hall, heedless of the snow that covered her low slippers. Her skirts leveled a wide path marked only by the tiny imprint of her flying feet.
The slamming of the massive portal reverberated through the hushed night, and in the dying echoes Bundy cast a cautious glance inside the coach at Christopher, who gave him a wry, lopsided grin as he folded the lap robe and placed it on the front seat. Taking up his cloak and the lady’s, he stepped down and stood gazing about, letting the cold night air cool his brain and body.
Erienne raced past an astounded Paine, who had heard the coach and was there to see about his duties. She did not care how she rocked the aging man back on his heels with her rapid flight. She took to the stairs and, gaining the safety of her chamber, slammed that oaken panel as well, locking it with a quick twist of her wrist. Only then did she dare pause to catch her breath. Whether it was from relief at having escaped the Yankee, the exertion of her flight, or plain, simple fear, her heart thudded in her breast, seeming to jolt her entire body with every beat.
Her mind raced beneath the impact of the evening’s events. For the first time since her marriage she had locked the door to her chamber, and she was afraid that Lord Saxton might attempt a visit and find the portal barred against him. But a greater fear gnawed at her that Christopher might find his way to her chamber and seek to finish what he had started. She was absolutely certain that she could not withstand that rake’s persuasive, unrelenting assault. He dogged her heels at every turn, and she had the distinct feeling that if she were to board a ship for the farthest corner of the world, it would not be long before she would see the tall, raked masts of the frigate-size Cristina on the horizon racing after her.
Erienne held her breath as she heard slow footsteps come down the hall, pause a long moment by her door, then fade away in the direction of the guest room. She was dismayed that he was to be a guest in Saxton Hall for the night and she would have to face him come the morningtide. In the coach she had been ready to yield to him, and she was frightened of his promise to continue his pursuit. Her whole being burned with the fire that he had torched. His hands on her body, his lips on hers, his forceful persuasiveness had been her downfall. She had not been able to withstand his ardor, and her pride had toppled beneath his deliberate attack on her senses. He had brought her to that moment of sweet ecstasy, knowing full well what he was doing to her, and now she would forever hunger for that same devastating bliss.
A ragged sob escaped her, and she flung herself away from the door. Pressing trembling fingers against her temples, she began to pace restlessly about the room. She had given sacred vows in a church, and even though her marriage was unconsummated, she was bound by her word to be a proper wife. She could not betray her husband in such a despicable manner. He wanted her too, and yet he had held himself in restraint. And now if he came, he would see that something was amiss, and what would she tell him? That she had almost given herself to another man?
A violent trembling seized her. Her emotions were torn asunder, and she could find no peace in the depths of her thoughts. What her heart yearned for went against everything she deemed honorable, and yet what honor demanded, she could not bring herself to do. Be Lord Saxton’s wife in more than name? Submit herself to his passions? She could not bear it.
Erienne paused beside the huge chair where Lord Saxton often sat and laid an unsteady hand along its back. She remembered her surprise when first she touched him. Expecting an overwhelming sense of revulsion to seize her, she had been amazed to find no evidence of distortion or weakness. Beneath her fingers she had felt the warmth, the quickness of life, the rippling bulges of firmly toned muscles.
Somehow before meeting her husband, she had to calm herself. She could not let him see the flush of passion on her cheeks, or the warm light of desire in her eyes. She was frightened of rousing some conflict between the two men. Each was fully capable of violence, and if one of them were wounded or killed, she would be forever tormented by guilt and sadness.
The house was deathly still, and only the chimes of a distant clock tolling the second hour broke the silence. No boldly striding footfalls, no shuffling steps came to her door; no light rapping on the planks, no thump of a cane was heard in the night. Relief came in slow degrees as she realized that neither Christopher nor Lord Saxton were bound for her chamber.
She sponged away the last traces that remained of the ball and garbed herself in gown and robe. The garments were the usual diaphanous frills that were hardly worthy of any name, let alone the actuality, but they were typical of those selected by Lord Saxton. Sinking to the bench at her dressing table, she picked up the brush and idly stroked her hair as she mused on the
evening. A thousand images flitted through her mind: the ball, the grandeur of the Talbot mansion, the man’s persistence, Claudia’s sneering smiles; and her own thoughts came back to Christopher. She remembered when first she met him. She had been so anxious for a handsome suitor, she had readily welcomed him into the cottage. Though her father had been much at fault in the affairs between the two, he could not yet hear Christopher’s name without turning a livid red. It still bemused her that Avery could be so nonchalant about all that he had done, as if he were the innocent one.
She laid down the brush and pressed her hair flat against the sides of her head, letting the long tresses fall in rippling dark waves down her back. “Am I in truth my father’s daughter?” she whispered softly. “Is it my brow that bears a resemblance?” She leaned forward and peered intently at the image. “Perhaps the eyes are his, or the nose.” She moved the chimneyed candle to shift the light to see her image better, then lifted her chin and turned her head from side to side, tracing the pouting lower lip with a questing fingertip. “Where is the likeness? Is it outward?” Her eyes widened as a slow horror dawned. “ ’Tis not outward, but inward! ’Tis here!” Her clenched fist flew to her bosom and pressed over her heart as she stared at the slack-jawed image that gaped back in distaste. “I have denied my husband the rights of my own vows, and yet there is within me this disabling desire to yield the same to another. My father yielded to his own greed and gaming lusts and sold me in the bargain. ’Tis the same. My father’s blood is mine!”
A Rose in Winter Page 39