Sweet Savage Eden

by Heather Graham

  She started then and fell silent, for she heard some sound at the door to the stables. She thought that it was late for the young grooms to be about, for they all lived in the cottages that surrounded the estate, and none of them lived in the stable. Not even old Arthur, in charge of the horses and grooms, slept here, for his pallet lay in the little room next to the tack house.

  “Jassy?”

  It was Robert’s voice. She smiled with a rush of pleasure and came around the mare’s rump. He had left the puppet show to come to her. “Robert, I am here.”

  “Jassy!” Wearing a charming, crooked smile, he came her way. “I was worried when I realized that you were gone.”

  “I felt like an intruder.”

  “An intruder?” he murmured. He was before her by then. He took both her hands in his own and laced her fingers with his. The light seemed to waver, the room to spin. “You could never be an intruder, Jassy.”

  “I do not think that my brother would agree with you,” she said. She might have added that her sister Lenore would not agree with him, either, but just then, as they stood there alone in the lamplight, she didn’t want to breathe Lenore’s name.

  “Your brother has seen this night that you have an uncanny beauty, and that your grace came inborn, and that there is a fire inside of you that fascinates and beckons.”

  “Has he seen this?” she whispered. Perhaps there was fire in her eyes, and she did feel beautiful, for he allowed her to feel so. Excitement crackled around her, and her dreams seemed to find full measure once again.

  He pulled her closer and closer, holding their laced fingers down by his side. She stared into his light, dancing eyes, and her heart fluttered at the things she saw within them.

  Then he kissed her.

  His mouth was soft and persuasive. It formed over hers, and she parted her lips instinctively to his. He released her fingers, wrapped his arms around the small of her back, and pressed her hard against him. His lips moved then, wetly and sloppily over hers, and she didn’t really care. She threaded her fingers into his hair and felt their hearts pounding together. He groaned against her, their lips broke, and he whispered with agony, “How I have wanted you.”

  “I am here!” she whispered with little thought, for her imaginings had not gone far beyond this point. But her words were a fuel to him, and his lips pressed against her throat and lowered to the rise of her breasts. Then he arched her tightly against him, feverishly kissing her. Her mind whirled, and she felt his hands upon her, here and there, and then his lips again, and his fingers, plucking at the ties to her stomacher.

  No, he must not. Yet she could not find the words or the will to stop him. He loved her, she was certain. Yet she knew, too, that she could let him go no farther. Not unless he married her.

  “Robert …” she whispered.

  Her breasts were spilling from the gown, and she could neither stop nor dislodge him. He caught her lips in a kiss again. It was a sweet kiss, soft, tender. She closed her eyes and held tight to him. Then they were both interrupted by the loud sound of someone clearing his throat.

  Robert abruptly straightened. He still held Jassy about the waist. He stared toward the first stall. Jassy, her eyes glazed with fascination, was slower to realize the interruption. Then she, too, stared down the length of the stables to the first stall.

  Jamie was there, casually leaning against the hayrack, arms crossed over his chest, one booted foot atop a bale of hay. “Excuse me, but the Lady Lenore has been seeking you, Robert, to question you about your costume.”

  “Damn!” Robert muttered. “Love, forgive me.” He set Jassy straight, leaving her to deal with the disarray of her gown. He thanked Jamie and strode on out of the stables.

  Jamie remained. He didn’t move. He watched her with dark and condemning eyes.

  Trying to ignore him, Jassy lowered her eyes. She tried to adjust the gown’s stomacher and retie the ribbons, but her fingers were trembling horribly.

  He strode toward her, and when she looked up, there was such a dark fire to his gaze that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. He brushed her hands aside.

  “Stop it!” she protested.

  “Would you be found here as you are?” he demanded roughly. With practiced fingers he retied the ribbons. He brushed her bare flesh with his touch again and again, and she wanted to scream. He was in no way gentle. He was nearly brutal. Standing before her, he seemed ablaze with tension, so vibrant and hot that heat emanated from him and washed upon her in great waves.

  “How much were you paid for that endearing scene, Mistress Dupré? Had I realized that you were still in the market for a lover, I’d have put in a higher bid.”

  She shrieked in fury and tore away from him, then came for him again, lashing out for his face, his chest, whatever she could strike. She caught him, as she had longed to do, with one good cut across the jaw, but he was swift with his reprisal, capturing her wrists, twisting them harshly behind her back. She was tightly pressed to him, still alive with fury, and she tried to kick him. He easily slipped his foot behind hers, and she fell to ground, dragging him down upon her. She heard the grate of his teeth, and when she stared into his eyes, they seemed black, and the tension that gripped his features in a steel-hard rage was merciless. And still she twisted and fought against him, heedless that her hair was falling, that her beautiful gown was being torn and dirtied. “You insufferable oaf, I have had it with you—I hate you and I loathe you and I despise you—and I will never let you touch me, not for any price! I cannot bear your touch—”

  “No? You are a liar, Jassy, for you are no hothouse flower but the wildest of roses, made for a tempest. You fool! You would hate Robert in a matter of months were you to have him, for indeed, you would twist him to your will. But you cannot have him. You won’t see that, will you? But I will prove to you that you were not meant for him.”

  “No!”

  He ignored her completely. He pressed his lips to hers, and they were neither soft, nor gentle, nor persuasive in the least. They were a brand, demanding, hot and searing. They forced her mouth apart beneath him, and his tongue savagely ravaged the fullness of her mouth, hot and hard. She could barely draw breath, she could not move, and she could not fight him. She could feel him only. The wild, rugged tempest that raged inside of him seemed to sweep inside of her. She did not want him, she hated his touch, she despised him … and still, it was as if he had drugged her. It was as if he filled her with fire and rage, and with a slow, beating tempo and hot, liquid fury. He kissed her and kissed her, and the tempo beat throughout her, and she could fight him no longer. The tempo had entered her head. She dared not move, for she could feel his body through the layers of clothing between them. She could feel the savage power in him. She shuddered, for it swept from him to her, cascaded down the length of her. His hand was upon her, upon the ribbons at her bodice, and they were untied once more. She was freed from the stomacher of her gown, and his palm swept over her nipple while he curved his hand and cupped her breast where it mounded over the lace and bone of her corset. His thumb teased the nipple through the gauze. A thread of silver sensation shot through her from that touch. She squirmed and wiggled, and merely felt his body more fully, and still she could not escape the pressure of his kiss. His heat became a part of her. She could no longer fight. She was dazed by his power, and by his touch. She lay still. The savagery of his assault slackened instantly. His hand barely touched her breast. His lips barely fell against hers, and the tip of his tongue rimmed her mouth and her inner lip, and curiously, she lay there still, allowing it all to happen.

  Then, abruptly, he lifted his head. Her lips were surely bruised and damp, and they lay parted, for she was desperate to breathe. Her hair was in disarray, loosed from its ribbons. Her breast was bare, except for the sheer lace of the corset that did not cover it at all.

  He smiled down at her sardonically. “A position as my mistress remains open, Jasmine, and I do assure you, my financial assets
far exceed Robert’s expectations.”

  She stared at him, longing for the words to tell him how she hated him, longing to be freed from his touch. She shrieked out something and tried to strike him again. He caught her hands and twisted them behind her back. Laughing, he lowered his head, and his tongue touched her nipple through the lace, and then he lowered his head still farther, bringing the whole of it into his mouth. She swore again, yet she shuddered as the ribbon of sensation leapt from her breast to the innermost part of her. Slowly he released her, gently easing the high peak of her breast and the lace of her corset from the graze of his teeth.

  She raged against him, jerking and twisting and pelting him with her fists, but her only reward was the sound of his harsh laughter. Then he climbed from her at last and caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. She jerked from his touch, tears spilling from her eyes. She blinked them away. Her fingers still trembled when she tried to right her clothing, but when he roughly said, “Here, let me help!” she swore with ever greater menace and turned away from him.

  “Leave me!” she demanded, turning her back upon him. “After all that you have done, can you not at least go!”

  “Nay, I shall not go. I shall walk you back into the house when we are certain that you look none the worse for wear.”

  “I will never walk anywhere with you! You are untrustworthy! I cannot bear you to—”

  He swung her around, staring at her with a curious passion, and the tension was ever about him. “No, don’t say it again, for we both know that it is a lie. You are no Lady Lenore, and indeed, you are no lady I have ever known, for you are real, alive, and breathing, and with a heart that pounds fiercely and eyes that are full of a feminine promise.” He clutched her hands and drew them between them. “Look! Look here at the unladylike calluses upon these hands! Mistress, they are admirable hands to my eyes, for they have known work and toil. Jassy, your quest is for life, you little fool! It is for life and for passion, and you cannot be made to see it, though you feel it! How long will you lie to yourself? You can bear my touch, you can bear it very well. It is what you need, it is what you require, it is what you crave! I know you. I know your strengths, and I know your weaknesses, and I know the workings of your cunning little mind and your greedy little heart! You are playing a dangerous game, you are playing it all wrong, and you are ignoring the rules—”

  “Just get away from me!” she insisted, wrenching her hands from his grasp. Ah, but they were a sore spot with her! They were a reminder that she had been a cook’s apprentice and a scullery maid. They were rough and reddened, and though Jane’s lotion had helped, they betrayed her at every turn, no matter how she dressed in silks and fur. She cast them behind her back, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and cared not how disheveled her gown was as she faced and challenged him. “You play your games, Lord Cameron, and I shall play mine. And if I don’t know the rules, all the better, for then I may just ignore them. Like you, I play to win, and so help me, milord, I will win! I will never be your mistress, and you are wrong! I crave nothing from you!”

  He reached out to her. She screamed in fury, stamping a foot, and he laughed. “There is hay in your hair now, mistress. May I remove it for you?”

  “No!”

  “Come here, for you shall never redress yourself—”

  “I don’t trust you!”

  “Then don’t trust me. But if you ever wish to return to the house, you need my help.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  He dragged her close and she kicked him, but he grunted and pulled the hay from her hair. In a no-nonsense manner he spun her around, set the stomacher straight, and began lacing it into her bodice. In seconds it was properly tied, and he was no more intimate with her than a ladies’ maid might have been. Once again he swirled her around, straightening her skirt, and she tried to walk away from him. “Don’t!”

  “Get over here.”

  He caught her arm, wrenched her back around, and turned her. Once again, his hands were on her hair. She gritted her teeth, amazed that fingers that could touch with such force could move so surely upon her hair.

  “This is a service it seems you have performed many times!” she said gratingly.

  “Enough, I suppose.” She tried to move away from him.

  “Stand still!” he commanded.

  “Oh, I suppose that your mistresses usually do.”

  “And you are the unusual mistress.”

  “I am not your mistress at all.”

  “Ah, more’s the pity. I thought that you had just agreed to the position.”

  “Never!”

  “You’ll dream about me,” he promised.

  “Only in my darkest nightmares!”

  “I promise, you will yearn for my touch.”

  “I will yearn for your demise upon some heathen Indian spear.”

  “There. Now, let me see.”

  Without the least gentleness he pushed her from him and spun her about to face him. He critically scanned her hair and costume. “I think that the damage has been repaired.”

  “The damage can never be repaired!”

  “How rude. After all I have done to repair your appearance.”

  “ ’Twas your touch that destroyed it!”

  “Ah, but I was not the first to touch! I merely ventured where another man had already explored.”

  “Oh!” She raised her hand to slap him, but he laughed and brought her back hard against his chest again.

  “Shall I prove to you again that the day will come when you pine for the mere mention of my name? Alas, when we have just taken such pains to assure the demure chastity of your costume!”

  “You have proven nothing, except that you are a rude and insolent rodent! Robert is your friend, yet you demean him! You laugh at his intentions, but what of your own? You must take what I would willingly give to him—”

  “Fool!” he swore. She had yet to see him so darkly angry, so lacking in control. He shoved her from him and she staggered back. “So be it! Find Robert Maxwell! Give to him what you will. I cannot stop you. I can only warn you that he has nothing, and that no matter how enamored of you he is, there is nothing at all that he can give you. You dream of marriage. It will never be. Spin your dreams. You are blind, even unto yourself!”

  He bowed very low to her, spun about, and left her. Jassy watched him go, her breasts heaving, her teeth grating, her mind in a tempest. “Good riddance!” she swore.

  But she was shaking very badly and couldn’t stand. She lowered herself down to the balls of her feet on the floor, trying to draw steady breaths. God! But how she loathed him!

  Her fingers flew to her mouth, and she felt that her lips were still swollen from his touch. She still trembled but maintained some vague feeling of burning restlessness within her. She hated him with a blinding passion.

  But she could not get him out of her mind, and when she slipped back into the hall at last and escaped to the haven of her own small room, it was the searing blaze of his kiss that haunted her, while the soft touch of Robert’s lips faded annoyingly from her memory.

  VI

  Jassy expected the summons that came from her brother the next day.

  Henry never forgot that he was Duke of Somerfield, especially when he dealt with her. He did not speak with her casually, and when he passed her in the hall he expected a submissive curtsy from her. Like a feudal lord, he wanted those under his roof to be under his strict domination.

  “Jane tells me that you serve her well.”

  “Then I am glad,” she said, and she winced as she added, “Your Grace.”

  “I am not a cruel man, Jasmine.”

  “No, milord. Pray, tell me, have I indicated that you were?”

  He shook his head, and she wondered if their father had looked like him when he had first seduced her mother, tall and very golden, and certainly splendid in his brocade and silk.

  Henry walked to the window and look
ed out on the great curving drive before the Hall. “Let me give you a history lesson, little sister. In the late 1400s, men suspected that Richard III slew his own nephews, mere boys, in the Tower. In the next century Queen Mary had executed her legitimate cousin, Lady Jane Grey, for seizure of her throne, and for refusing to accept her Popish faith. Later, our great lady, Queen Elizabeth, had her cousin Mary Queen of Scots slain for plots against the throne. The Wars of the Roses were great, fratricidal battles. But then, you do know your history, don’t you? Jane tells me that it seems your education was well taken in hand.”

  “Yes, I know my history,” Jassy said.

  “Then you will understand that blood ties mean little in this world, especially when that blood tie is tarnished by the stain of your bastardy. I have done the best that I can for you. You are not a true member of this family, and you will not participate in events of importance as if you were. Jane likes you; Elizabeth dotes upon you. But I find you a fortune-digging little temptress like your mother, and you will not step upon my back to secure your fortune. You are my wife’s serving girl, and nothing more. You will not attend the ball. Lenore will find her husband then, and you will not interfere.”

  Jassy locked her teeth and lifted her chin. “Your Grace, how could I, a bastard, possibly interfere?”

  He returned to his desk and picked up a quill and a parchment of accounts. “You know, Jasmine, exactly how you might interfere. You are like your mother, a woman men lust for. You cause trouble by your very nature. I shall do my best to see that Christian and godly ways are instilled in you. Defy me and you will be beaten. Now, I am busy. You are excused.”

  She didn’t leave. She ran to the desk, kneeling down before him. “Your Grace! Elizabeth tells me that the lowliest milkmaid is allowed to attend—”