Surrender (15 page)

She wasn’t in love now, she couldn’t be, not with the enemy! This was so different, but it was something she had felt from the first time she had seen him, known him, heard his voice. She was sane, she was in her right mind; she’d surely pay for this, yet she could not stop it … stop him. She knew that no matter how long he might keep her prisoner against her will, or how he
might clamp down on her attempts to escape, he would stop now if she protested.

Protest, yes, she needed to do so. But she
wanted
this. His touch … his hand, oh, God, his fingers. He parted her, slipped into her, touched, rubbed. She trembled violently, taut, writhing, twisting. Some kind of a sound escaped her, and he shifted. She suddenly felt the trousers pulled free from her body, and she lay naked in the sun and sand and surf except for the ragged tatters of the cotton shirt. And still she couldn’t open her eyes …

She gasped, startled, as he suddenly caught her knees, parting them. Then he came down between her thighs. His lips and hands roamed her freely, cradling her breasts, igniting them anew with the fiery gloss of his tongue. Then lower, kisses covering the flesh of her belly. She kept her eyes tightly closed as he moved down lower. Teasing her flesh, taunting, arousing. She should be horrified, shocked. She was shocked … she was …

Sound left her then in a strangled cry, and if she could have spoken, she would have protested at last. But his hands had slipped beneath her, rounding her buttocks, and his tongue moved intimately between her thighs, a fiery liquid seduction on tender innocent flesh that was appalling and marvelous, and so incredibly intense she thought she was dying as searing sensations began to sweep over her …

Her fingers tore into his hair, her head thrashed against the sand and at last, so belatedly, words of protest left her lips, even as a budding climax began to throb from her core. He teased, he savored, he played; he ignored her pleas, until she was writhing and arching wildly against him in sheer, mindless abandon. Then he rose, tearing away his wet clothing, coming down again to blanket her with his form. She felt the hard protrusion of his erection where she still burned, yet he paused. She opened her eyes at last, meeting his hard gaze.

“Last chance.”

“To…?”

“Stop this.”

She closed her eyes again.

“Look at me.”

She didn’t want to. The hunger he had created was
still wrenching her body. The earth was drumming with the warmth of the sun and the flow of the surf.

“Look at me!” he said again, more harshly.

Her eyes flew open.

“Last chance,” he repeated.

She sobbed out a response, clinging to him suddenly, unable to believe that she was lying with him, naked in the sand, needing him so badly. Her enemy.

“You’re not making love with Ian,” he said sternly, against her ear.

She would have protested then. It was like a cold blanket being thrown over her soul. But it was too late. By the time his words came, she was wrapped in his arms again. And a sudden sharp thrust of his pelvis brought him deeply within her.

Her nails dug into his shoulders; a shriek of mindless agony tore from her lips. She felt as if she’d been knifed. Tears she couldn’t begin to control stung her eyes. She stared at the sky, raggedly gasping for breath.

He went still; dead still. He rose slightly, and she felt his eyes on her. He touched her cheek, and she knew that he brushed away a tear. “Risa, I’d never have sought this victory had I known …”

Known what? she wondered. She was dazed. The world still spun. She still felt cut in two. His fingers were in her hair, his whisper against her ear. “Easy … easy …”

He was moving. Slowly. Retreating … coming into her fully once again. She choked on her sobs …

Then … miraculously, the pain began to fade. And he was moving faster. Faster. Filling her. And against that sudden onslaught of anguish, liquid pleasure was taking root once again. She was aware of the tension and strength in his arms and chest, the bronze suppleness of his flesh, the texture of his hair. But mostly, she was aware of the center of the fire, burning with greater fever inside her with every second that passed. She clung to his muscled chest, cheek against his flesh, as she felt the ever quickening fury of his motion within her. Deeper, faster, deeper … something building, excruciating, wonderful …

A thrust …

And the sea exploded inside her, the sun burst into fragments, and she soared over the highest peak … and stars cascaded down upon her. Sweet, so sweet, it was achingly sweet … it was ecstasy. It left her mindless, eclipsed the sun, the sand, and even the rush of the surf, now washing over their naked legs. She was only vaguely aware of him, still within her, shuddering, collapsing, his warmth mingling with hers, filling her once again with the liquid heat of the sun.

A shimmering glow surrounded her as slight shivers swept through her again and again. She slowly drifted downward until finally, she felt the chill of the air and the surf against her flesh.

He withdrew from her, and she trembled as the breeze touched her nakedness. She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to have to open them.

It seemed that her life flashed through her mind in vivid mockery. In so many difficult times, she’d been resolutely poised, mature, responsible. The general’s capable, competent, admirable daughter. Ah, the lovely Miss Risa! Untouchable. Proud, independent. She’d kept her head high when she’d heard about her fiance’s sudden marriage to another. She’d soothed Ian, and assured him she was fine—when her heart and pride had both been shattered. She’d befriended his wife, been godmother to his child. She risked her own neck to warn Alaina time and again of impending doom. She’d patched up wounded soldiers, emptied bed pans, assisted at amputations, and she’d never faltered.

And now, suddenly, it was as if her facade of control had shattered. She’d made love on a beach with a half-breed Rebel who was nearly a stranger. She’d not had a single thought for propriety; she’d known only that she wanted him. That she’d become transfixed by the bronze of his flesh, the blue of his eyes, the texture of his hair, the sound of his voice. And he’d made love to her with all his being.

“You might have said something,” he told her after a moment.

She opened her eyes, and looked at him. His features were taut; his eyes were nearly indigo in the dying light.

She sat up, hugging her arms around her knees, suddenly feeling her nakedness.

“Said something? Such as?” she murmured, staring across the horizon. Strange now how she could feel so many things, when for so long all she had felt was …

Him.

“Well, I’d assumed …” he began huskily.

“You’d assumed that I’d slept with Ian?” she inquired coolly. “How kind. He married a Southern girl when they were caught in a compromising position—but you assumed that I had slept with him.”

He rose, his back to her. He was very handsomely built. His waist and hips were narrow, his shoulders broad and well muscled, as were his buttocks, thighs, and calves.

He stepped into his pants, then turned back to her.

“Risa—Miss Magee, that wasn’t a criticism of the morals of a Yankee woman. I know that he was very much in love with you, and you him.”

She swallowed hard, looking down at the sand, fighting a new wave of tears that sprang to her eyes.

“And if I am harsh, it is because—although I do love my cousin dearly despite his sorry decision to fight for the North—I do not care to be used as a substitute in his stead.”

Risa rose to her feet, turning her back on him to don her trousers. “Trust me, sir, you are a substitute for no man,” she murmured under her breath.

She tied the trousers, then reached for the torn remnants of Jeremiah’s cotton shirt. “I can’t go back!” she whispered suddenly.

“I’m sorry, but you will have to go back—”

“My shirt; it’s destroyed.”

“Then, take mine.”

“I—”

“My breasts don’t excite anyone,” he assured her dryly.

Her back to him, she managed a smile. He was wrong. His chest was damned exciting.

She felt his touch, slipping the ripped garment from her shoulders and helping her into the damp shirt he’d
been wearing. She thanked him, and quickly buttoned the shirt, knotting the hem at her waist for a better fit.

She turned around. He was staring at her.

“I’m supposed to be sorry,” he told her.

Her cheeks flamed. “I don’t expect you to be sorry—”

“I’m not,” he said, then added softly, “I can’t be.” He inclined his head, indicating his horse. She walked to the animal, with him right behind her. He set her up onto the saddle, then leapt up behind her. They rode back toward the shantytown.

The
Lady Varina
sat in the harbor. Jeremiah waited at a small boat to row them out to her. Little was said as they headed for the ship.

Once aboard, Jerome spoke to her again. “Jeremiah will see to your supper, and a bath. Tomorrow we’re going to sail up the coast. I have to pass St. Augustine to get to Jacksonville, and go down the St. Johns there. The river flows south, where we’ll leave you with a trusted escort to see that you’re brought safely back to St. Augustine. It will take us two to three days at most.”

“Thank you,” Risa told him. Ah, yes, there it was! She had found her poise at last, and her dignity. She had lost something, yet regained her pride.

She turned and headed for his cabin.

Jeremiah was reproachfully silent as he brought her a meal—and the small ship’s hip tub and water. When she had bathed, she knew that she couldn’t redon the clothing she had been wearing. She’d all but destroyed Jeremiah’s trousers, and Jerome’s shirt carried a faint scent of him that was a staggering reminder of the events on the beach. She told herself she wasn’t sorry—at least she wouldn’t die a lonely, dried-up, bitter old maid. And still, she was oddly afraid, because she would never be the same again, either. She would live with him haunting her dreams forever.

She had no choice now but to wear the garments he had purchased for her.

She remained in the captain’s cabin that night. Oddly enough, she slept well.

She didn’t see much of Jerome the following day; they rode out a squall, and he was busy at the helm. Toward the late afternoon, when the rains had stopped and only
the wind remained, she went up on deck. She was aware of him at the wheel; he was aware of her. He made no attempt to speak.

The wind continued to howl that evening. When she got tired of slamming against the cabin walls as the ship heaved, she carefully disrobed and went to bed early. The rocking soothed her.

Around midnight, the wind died.

Soon after, she heard the cabin door again.

He stood there, stripped down to his breeches, bronze flesh slick with rain, silhouetted now in bright moonlight. Crystal rain droplets fell from his dark hair.

He stepped into the cabin, came to the bed, and looked down at her. He pulled back the covers, and she felt the sweep of his eyes over her length.

He shed his trousers.

He came into the bunk, over her. He bluntly parted her thighs with his knees. She shifted, swallowing hard, her hands against his chest. But he threaded his fingers through hers, drawing her hands to the sides of her head.

“Yankee,” he accused her softly.

“Rebel,” she replied.

“You are the enemy.”

“You’re mistaken. You are the enemy.” Oh, Lord. She could feel the force of his arousal against her flesh …

“I should go,” he told her gravely.

“You should,” she agreed with no conviction.

“But it’s the last night you’ll be my prisoner. In my power. To do with as I will.”

“Rebel arrogance,” she whispered.

“Is that what it is?” he inquired huskily. He freed her right hand, slightly shifting his weight. His touch moved over the length of her body. His fingers lightly dusted her mound. Parted and stroked her sex. Slid into her. She instinctively tried to draw her legs together, yet his body was lodged firmly between them. “I meant to be more honorable—like my Yankee cousin,” he mused. “I tried, honestly. But I can’t stay away; not tonight,” he told her. “Tomorrow you’ll be free. The general’s proud, untouchable daughter once again. So tonight, well, to-
night we’ll battle one last time—and God alone knows who really surrendered. Tonight is mine.”

She trembled, waiting, wanting. She closed her eyes in the darkness, thinking he would never know how
she
would cherish this night in the void of time to come.

“Open your eyes, Yank.”

For a moment she could not.

“Risa.”

She opened her eyes slowly. His had somewhat darkened, and there was a tautness about him.

“Ah, well!” he murmured softly. “Tonight, my beloved enemy, I just can’t give a damn whom you’d like me to be.”

Frowning and quickly enraged, she opened her mouth to form an angry protest. But she never spoke, for his mouth closed over hers with hungry demand, and the passion of her argument was lost to that of his desire. Even as he kissed her, he thrust into her, filling her.

There was no pain. He moved slowly, arousing her with subtle fluid movement and ever increasing rhythm. There was nothing but the sheer pleasure of the heights to which he brought her, and the soft caress of the shadows that enwrapped them, hiding all sins. Anger faded, passion burned.

It was easy to surrender the night.

J
ulian McKenzie silently washed his hands, fighting the deep sense of failure and dismay that was settling over him.

He had just lost a patient.

It wasn’t that he didn’t lose patients often enough; it was war, he did. His would-be patients died half the time before he was able to tend them, since he followed the few troops desperately trying to cause havoc along the St. Johns River. Still, this recent loss seemed especially bitter.

The boy just taken from his operating table had been hit in the foot with stray rifle fire. He shouldn’t have died. He’d only been nineteen. Hell, he hadn’t even had any facial hair. If he had been hit with a musket ball, he might have survived. Musket balls were slow. They stopped upon impact, perhaps fracturing a bone. But this boy had taken a minié ball—fairly new cone-shaped bullets that flattened out on impact, causing bones to shatter. They were fast enough to do incredible damage, but not fast enough to exit the body. A bone in the boy’s ankle had been shattered. He hadn’t wanted to lose his foot, so he bandaged up his own injury—and hid the fact that he was bleeding and in severe pain. Julian had been awakened before dawn when the boy’s commanding officer had discovered the injury, but by then severe infection had set in.