Authors: Heather Graham
The pain began to fade. The warmth filled her. She parted her lips to his command, and she did not protest his hands upon her body. He stroked her breasts until she cried out, and still she was aware of the hardness of him inside her, achingly aware of the sexual intimacy. And acutely aware of the combustile warmth. She could not give in to it. She must never give in to it.…
Suddenly he withdrew from her. The burning was still all about her. She wondered with rising hope if he meant to leave her be now, if that was all …
It was not. It was to be worse. His eyes upon her, he stroked the length of her torso with his hands. He covered her breasts, came down to her waist, and lifted her buttocks. He raised her high. She gasped and cried out, burning crimson that he should look at her so, then she realized his design, and she cried out in protest. “Nay, oh, please—”
“Lie still, madame. I will ease your pain.”
“No! No—”
But the complete, intimate invasion had begun. Her fingers wound into the bed sheet, and she tossed her head, continuing to protest. It stood her no stead, for he
took his leisure. She tried not to think, but she had never felt anything more keenly in her life, not the pangs of hunger, not the fear of death, not the promise of heaven. With a touch of sizzling, wet fire he stroked her and laved her, and she burned with a terrible ache, felt a crimson tide threaten to seize her. She twisted and writhed and begged him to cease. He touched and probed and laved her again. She wanted to die and felt that she could.
Then he released her. He crawled over her and thrust deep inside of her once again, and when he was there, the feel of him was absurdly right. He filled her still, a massive blade that cut inside her, but her body gave to his. Where her heart could not give, her form surrendered, and she yielded to his command.
When he began to move, she gasped. Her fingers dug into his hair and into his back. He moved slowly at first. His whisper touched, brushed her cheek. “Do I hurt you?”
She shook her head. She could never look at him again. She would never be able to face him. She burned still from that very first thrust, but he caused her no new pain. She buried her face against his shoulder. The scent of him was not unpleasant. It was clean and masculine, and somehow it was better than to be against him.
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 still 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.