She shuddered suddenly, fiercely, as a surge of power seized him. It was a storm, a tempest, come upon him. Nothing was slow and nothing was easy, and she clung to him tightly, lest she be lost to the storm. On and on it raged, a tempest of power, of driving thrusts and strokes, of tension, terrible and sweet. She lay there, aware of the rising fire all around her, vaguely aware that something sweet lay within her reach, something that made this wild storm the tempest that it had become for him. She could give in to it, she thought, as he moved against her again and again, indomitable. She could give in to it, to the strength of the arms that held her, to the curious promise of glory.
No, no! She must never …
He rose above her high, and he came into her again, shuddering and rigid. He fell against her. Something honeyed entered into her, a warm liquid seeping from his body into hers.
His arm lay over her breasts; his fingers touched her nipple with absolute possession. Jassy felt the burning between her legs, and his casual and negligent touch with his complete assumption of right. It was over. He had taken what he wanted, and now she had no secrets from him. She had been, she was certain, as well used as a woman could be.
She swore savagely. She tossed his arm from her, and she turned and crawled to the far corner of the bed, her back to him. To her dismay, tears spilled down her cheeks.
He never let her be! He touched her shoulder and pulled her back.
“Stop, please, leave me be now, for God’s sake!” she demanded.
But he ignored her. His indigo eyes pierced her as thoroughly as his body had done. “I did not seek to hurt you.”
“I am not hurt!” she lied.
“I told you that if you married me, you would lie here. You were in agreement.”
Her lashes fell over her eyes. She felt his fingers again, light, idly stroking her breasts. “Please!”
“It is never easy the first time, so they say. Damn you! I did not seek to hurt you! ’Tis your tongue; it is a vicious thing, a weapon few men could withstand.”
“Does it matter?” She looked up. She did not protest his touch. She gritted her teeth against it, and his hand stopped its movement.
“Nay, madame, perhaps it does not.”
He turned away from her. Jassy rolled again to the far side of the bed and curled into a ball. She shivered, but she dared not reach over him to the covers on the floor. She tightened into herself as much as she could. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine being mistress of the house. She thought of the graceful pillars and the beautiful lines, of the crystal and the silver and the gold.
It did not work. All that she could see was the passion in his dark eyes as he moved over her. It still seemed that he was with her. It seemed as if he would always be a part of her from now, until forever. She would never free herself of the feel of him. She had sold her soul and would never find peace.
But she did find it. In time she heard his even breathing. She lay awake, aware of him there. She thought that she would move, that she would find the remnants of her gown, that she would sleep in a chair. But she did not move; exhaustion claimed her and she found the peace she so desperately sought.
The instant Jamie awoke, he longed to touch her. He did not, no more so than he did already, for the cold of the night had sent her against him. She lay, beautiful and naked and sleek, against his side. She was at a half curve, her back to him, her arm cast out, her knee curled high. Her breast peeked out from a tangle of hair and the crook of her elbow, and it was such a temptingly ripe fruit, he barely restrained himself.
Yet he did. He stared at her, and he bitterly mocked himself. He had been certain that when he had her in his arms, he could make her come alive! That he could touch a fire and ignite the spirit within her.
He was a fool who had been taken in by a fortune-hunting piece of baggage. He had seen a sensuality in her that did not exist; he had sought a promise that had never been given.
He sighed softly to himself. Well, it was done. He had married her, despite the protest of friend and foe alike, and even the king. She had never pretended not to hate him.
Yet, he thought gravely, it might have been better. Had she not turned from his kiss, and by God, had she not brought Robert’s name into their bed, he would have taken a far greater care before touching her in violence. He wondered if it could ever be rectified now, and then he thought of the years and years before them, and it was a chilling thought.
No, he promised himself, he had not made a mistake. She was what he wanted. She was strong and willful, and if she despised him, perhaps that was well, for she would need the power of her emotions to endure the hardships ahead. And all the better for him. He wanted a wife, he needed a wife to complete his life in the New World, and he was determined to have children, many of them. She was young and strong. She could detest every single minute of her duty, but she would accustom herself to it, and she would give him sons.
He wondered what had driven him with such determination to marry her. She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty. Lenore had much of her look—in fact, he had decided that he would marry Lenore, as he desired a wife. But from the beginning Jassy had bewitched him. It was something that he could not touch, not even now, now that he had married her, that he had bedded her at last. It was elusive; he still could not touch it. It was her will, it was her determination, it was the very strength of her hatred and determination. It was the spark in her eyes, the fire … fire that he could not tap.…
She sighed. Her lips parted, and they were soft and beguiling. By God, he would find it. He would reach for the fire, until it blazed to an inferno, for him.
He touched the tangle of her golden hair, and he drew his finger down the length of her spine and over her buttock. Still sleeping, she stretched, sleek and lovely and sensual. Her breasts jutted out then, and she sighed softly again.
He came behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips against her nape, and filled his hands with the full, round firmness of her breasts. He had never seen a woman more beautiful naked. Her skin was silken, her waist was tiny, and her hips held a fascinating, sensual flare. Her legs were long and very shapely, and her nipples were large and an exquisite deep rose color. It was there! he was certain. It was there, a deep and sultry passion! He tightened his jaw, and he swore savagely to himself that he would find it—and if he did not, he would tame her still. She could vent her rage all she chose—she would learn that it would do her no good.
She sighed softly again in her sleep. He cupped her breast, curved his body to hers from behind, and flicked her nipple with his thumb. She moved against him, awakening. He pressed his lips against her shoulders and ran his hand down her flanks. She arched, then awoke, stiffening.
“Lie still,” he commanded her.
“It’s morning—”
“Lie still.”
“It’s light—”
“I like the light.”
She swore softly. He ignored it and ran his hands over her buttocks again, lifting her thigh slightly and urging it forward. She turned her head away from him again, some sound escaping her, and he stroked her inner thigh, again and again, roaming every higher. He kissed her nape, bit lightly into her shoulder, and moved his tongue over her upper vertebrae. She lay very still, as he had commanded, and he wondered at her eyes, if they would be filled with fire and hatred, if she would fight him at the end, or if she had determined to honor her bargain. He slipped his thumb into her and felt her stiffen and shudder, but she did not protest, and to his surprise she was even sweetly wet and ready. He entered her from behind, pulled her close, and felt the blind, driving passion seize him. He swept into her stronger and deeper, and then with a raging abandon.
When it was over, she did not cry, scream, or protest. She lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, her beautiful sky-blue eyes blank. Entirely irritated, Jamie pulled the bell cord. Jassy came alive then, leaping from the bed. Curiously, after the evening and morning was spent, she stil
l tried to hide herself from him. She sought her gown, and when it came up in shreds, she swore. He did not help her. He sought his wardrobe and donned a robe, and while she was still searching in her trunk for something, there came a knock on the door.
She cast him a scathing glance. He smiled. “Get back into bed. I’ll give you the covers. Come in, please, Lymon.”
She hurried back into bed. As he had promised, he threw her the covers and she hid herself beneath them. The door opened and Lymon entered. Jamie bid him good morning cheerfully, then asked for milk, coffee, and rolls to be served in the room. “And the hip bath, too, Lymon. With lots of hot water.”
Lymon cast a quick glance at the figure beneath the rumpled covers, then promised that it would be done right away. Jamie thanked him. When Lymon was gone, he walked back over to the bed and wrenched the covers from her hold again. “Madame, you are supposed to be found in my bed by morning, you know. You are my wife.”
She grabbed for the covers again, coming to her knees, leaping up and seizing the sheets. He watched her movement. He watched the spill of her golden hair over her back, curling to her rump, and he watched the tendrils that fell over her breasts and curled around them. He watched the spark in her eyes, and the angry purse of her lips, and he watched the graceful sway of her hips and the movement of her legs. His eyes wandered to the juncture of her thighs, and he felt his loins tighten and harden.
He wanted her again. He took her and exploded with the force of it, and then he wanted her all over again. He didn’t know quite what it was, but he vowed to himself that he would discover it.
“May I have the first bath?” she asked him, tossing back her head of golden curls.
“Certainly. But you cannot wash away this marriage, you know.”
“It is not the marriage that I wish to wash away.”
“Ah, that’s right. Marriage is the manor and the servants and the estate. ’Tis only me you wish to wash away.”
“Those are your words.”
“Well, think of it. In two weeks I shall be gone.”
“Across the ocean,” she agreed.
“A perilous trip. Storms plague ships at sea. One never knows when one will meet up with a Spanish pirate.”
“I shall pray for you.”
He cast back his head and laughed. “I daresay that you shall be praying. But take heed, milady. Unless you bear me an heir, my estates will revert to my father. So perhaps you should pray that I do live for a while.”
“Have I no widow’s compensation?” she asked him sweetly.
“You do.”
“Well, then, that, I imagine, should be sufficient.”
He curved his lip into a smile and inclined his head toward her. “Alas, the emotion within you wrings my heart.”
“You know I have no feelings for you,” she said suddenly, passionately. Her eyes were very wide, somehow frightened, and very blue. “You chose to marry me. Would you have me pretend now?”
“No, love,” he said wearily, “we will have no pretense. If nothing else lies between us, let it be honesty.”
“You do not care for me!”
“But I do want you. More noble than mere marriage for money, I think.”
“I see. Lust is preferable,” she said grandly.
“You are an adventuress, Jassy. Perhaps we shall make out very well.”
He hesitated, for there was a knock on the door. He raised his voice and said that the caller must enter, and the door opened. Lymon entered with a half score of serving boys. He carried food, while the servants brought the carved wood hip bath and buckets of hot water. The household was very efficient, for while Lymon set out the milk, coffee and rolls, the boys brought more water. They all bowed to Jassy in her nest of covers. She colored and nodded an acknowledgment.
Then they were gone. Jamie poured two cups of coffee and brought her one. She accepted it with a soft “Thank you.”
“Breakfast is usually in the dining room,” he told her, “and usually much more substantial. In good weather we eat in the back, on the terrace.”
She sipped her coffee, then she set down her cup. Jamie watched her broodingly as she suddenly streaked from the bed and into the tub. She howled at the heat of the water, and, he was certain, had he not been standing there, she’d have jumped back out of the water. She sat, though, winding her hair above her head to keep it dry. She realized then that she hadn’t the soap or a cloth.
Jamie brought her both, still sipping his coffee. He dropped the cloth and the soap upon her and moved to the mantel, where he had a wonderful view of her. She lifted a long leg and scrubbed it, and then she remembered that he was there. With a scowl she slipped back into the tub.
“Please, don’t let me disturb you.”
“You do disturb me.”
“Do I?”
He set his cup upon the mantel. Her breasts were level with the height of the water, her nipples even with it. She saw the intent in his eyes as he approached her, and she let out a little sound of protest. He barely heard her. A rash of desire raged in his head, and he heard nothing but the driving wind of it. He knelt by the tub and took the soap and cloth in his hands. He laved her breasts with the suds and the piece of linen. “Don’t!” she whispered, leaning back, swallowing. He stretched his hand downward and between her legs, and she cried out, but he ignored her. She brought her hands against him, but then they went limp, and she lay back in the tub. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes closed. Her head rolled back and forth. “Don’t … please, don’t.”
He lifted her out of the tub. He laid her down upon the sheets, and when she tried to twist away, they both saw the stains on the sheets where her virginity had been lost. She twisted again and met his eyes. “No …”
He unbelted his robe and let it fall to the floor. She closed her eyes again and started to roll away. He straddled her, stopping her, whirling her around to face him.
“I just washed you away!” she cried.
He arched a brow. “No, madame. You washed for my pleasure and convenience.”
“Oh!” She tried to sit. He caught her shoulders and led her back. Her eyes were wild and somewhat panicked as she stared at him then. “Lie still!” he commanded her impatiently. “It should not be loathsome, and you should not feel pain. You should lie there, seeking me, as I seek you.”
“No!”
“But you will in time, I swear it.”
“You are an insolent pest!”
“Lie still, madame. I will prove it.” He took his hands off her. She bit into her lip and tried to squirm from beneath him. “Uh-uh, milady. Still. Unless, of course, you wish to scream and weep and writhe with passion.”
She swore again. He laughed, caught her wrists, and pressed her back to the bed. “I will kiss you whenever and wherever I choose, Jasmine,” he whispered, and then he set out to prove it.
She did not protest, twist, or fight. Her lips parted easily beneath his, and he kissed her deeply, feeling the rise of passion, of haunting, desperate desire. At last he raised his lips from hers. They remained parted, moist, and her breath came from her in little gasps. Her eyes, glazed and wide, met his. He smiled. Thunder and lightning raged through him, demanding he take her there and then, but he did not. He met her gaze, and his smile was wicked. He held her eyes while touching and playing with her breasts, and moved his hands ever lower and more intimately upon her. She tried to close her eyes. “Look at me!” he told her, and for a moment she did. But then he moved from her and parted her thighs. She closed her eyes again. “No!” she protested in a weak whisper. “No, no …”
He caught her foot, kissed the sole of it, and ran his tongue over her toes. He parted her thighs wider. When she tried to bring them back together, he spread them with his shoulders, allowing her no retreat. He stroked her thighs, and then he gave deliberate and piercing attention to the golden triangle of her sex. He took his leisure, touching, exploring, savoring the honey taste of woman and soap, and leaving her drenched
. And still she gave nothing to him. She remained as still as he had commanded her to be.
He crawled over her. Her eyes were open and glazed over, and her fingers were knotted into the sheets. She tried too hard to deny him! He swore in silence and caught her knees, then brought them high over his shoulders. He swept into her with a single stroke, and she encapsulated him easily with the sleek, sweet feel of honey. He placed his hands on her shoulders and thrust farther, and she tossed her head to the side. He drove harder into her. She cried out once, and then she was silent. He gritted his teeth, and the storm of his passion swept over him. The explosion of it was violent, and he fell against her, gasping for breath. She curled quickly away from him.
Furious, he caught her shoulder and swirled her back around. “Why? Why, damn you, must you fight me?”
“I did not fight you!” she cried.
“Nay, lady,” he said scornfully, “you did not claw or beat me, or try to run, but you fight what you feel yourself. You do not give yourself to me; you deny me every step of the way.”
She was trembling. She wanted to escape him. He was so achingly familiar with the beautiful naked length of her now that he could not bear it. He held her hard and fast. “Why?”
“Because I feel nothing!”
“You are a liar!”
“You take what you want; that is all there is!”
He let out a furious oath and moved away from her, stepped into the now-cold bath, and loved it. He washed with a vengeance, aware that she lay immobile on the bed, afraid to move. When he finished, he grabbed a towel and dried himself harshly.
He ignored her while he dressed. His tastes were simple that day, dark breeches and a white shirt and a leather jerkin and his high black riding boots. While he tugged them on, he spoke to her coldly, not glancing her way.
“I am sorry to leave you so, my dear, on the first day of our wedded bliss, but I’m certain that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. I have to see a man about the supplies for the ship.”
Sweet Savage Eden Page 16