Surrender (34 page)

“All right,” she murmured breathlessly. “Actually, I was asking because I hoped that you hadn’t been to Charleston.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then he left the mantel, striding to her, taking her arms and pulling her against him. He set his forefinger beneath her chin, causing her to look up at him. His eyes were deep, dark blue, fathomless.

“I have one question for you, Yank,” he told her.

“You do?”

“Are you still in love with my cousin, Ian?”

“What?” she murmured, too startled to make a flippant reply.

“Are you still in love with Ian?”

She smiled, slowly shaking her head. “No.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“Ah, well, then, is that the best you can do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As an apology. Let’s see, we agree that you were hateful. Quite hateful.”

“And I have said that I’m sorry.”

He cupped her chin tenderly in his hand, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb as his head lowered. “Surely, you can do better than that,” he whispered against her lips.

Yes, she could.

And she longed to do so.

She met his kiss with passion, and an urgent hunger. She found his tongue, dueled with it most sensually with her own, exploring his mouth, her arms around him, her fingers tangling into his hair. God, he felt good. His scent was masculine, his arms were strong, his flesh was hot, alive with the underlying play of muscle. They kissed, and kissed…feverishly, desperately.

He swept her up into his arms, and she felt the dampness of his breeches against the thin material of her nightgown. He strode with her into the bedroom and laid her down, but when he rose to peel away his damp breeches, she rose as well, glad of the shadows as she stripped the soft white cotton material over her head, letting it fall to the floor. On her knees on the bed, she crawled over to where he stood naked. The length of him was as hard as steel. Muscles rippled with his every movement, and he was lean and wiry and aroused, and completely tempting. She’d never been the aggressor; and she was nervous, awkward, but determined to touch him, to explore, and play, and tantalize. She wanted him to remember her, his wife, throughout the long days of the war to come. She slipped her arms around him, pressing her body to him, stroking down the length of his back with her fingertips. She brushed his cheek with her palm, met his lips in a brief, fiery kiss, then kissed his shoulders, licked his nipples, found the thundering pulse at his throat. All the while, she felt the extent of his arousal, brushing against her. She slipped from the bed, and to the floor, and with just the barest uncertainty, took him into her mouth. The deepest satisfaction swept her as she felt the convulsive force of his shudder, heard the groan that tore from him. Inflicting this fair torture was sheer delight, the sweetest sense of power. Her fingertips roamed over his buttocks, cupped them. She played, explored, experimented. Teasing with the tip of her tongue, taking him deeply. Taunting, provoking …

Until a gruff cry tore from him, and she was up and in his arms, and meeting his mouth again in a wild, reckless kiss. His hands were on her, his lips raked her body, burning it with wet fire. Her breasts…oh, God, hunger
ripped through her as he teased her nipples. All her senses had been heightened, so it seemed. He skimmed her belly, delved between her thighs, licked, teased…

Tortured. She trembled. Cried out, arched, writhed, wanted him as never before.

Yet he paused suddenly, and she was still, wondering what was wrong. She realized that he was studying her body. He traced a blue vein in her breast, and ran his finger down the length of her, over the rise of her belly.

“He moved.”

“What?”

“He moved. I’m not so sure he wants me touching you.”

“Oh!” she cried softly. “But I … I mean, I know it’s all right, women talk, I’ve listened all these years—I help deliver babies!”

He smiled at her then, rising to kiss her very tenderly. “I know it’s all right. And still, I would be more gentle…”

He flipped her about, fingers stroking down her back, kisses now liquid and as searing as a curving sweep of lava down her spine. Then the pressure of his body was behind her, no weight upon her, yet he filled her completely, and she cried out again, so glad just to feel him within her.

He was gentle, yet she felt his strength and power, and the passion that could so ignite her. She had so craved him, even the anticipation of each stroke was sweet. He swept her away, higher and higher, until she thought that she had come to an unbearable precipice; no more, she could bear no more…and yet she did, until all exploded, and fire was bursting through her, enwrapping her, sating her, filling her. His arms remained tightly wrapped around her when the last sweet shudders faded. And she was content, happy as she had never imagined. She was his wife; she was in love with him. He was with her, and they were going to have a child. And the rest of the world, North and South, could go hang.

She felt his fingers moving in her hair.

“I wish you would send for me more often,” he whispered.

“I seldom know where to send,” she murmured, sidling back against him. His hand lay against her abdomen, and she felt the gentle seeking of his fingertips there. “You—weren’t in Charleston, were you?”

“I’ve been a number of places,” he told her. “But Charleston wasn’t among them. Most recently, I’ve been home. I’ve been across the river because I had picked up some herbal remedies we grow in the far south. He’s moving again.”

“He might be a she.”

“He might, but I doubt it.”

“Oh?”

“My father had two boys first.”

She turned to look at him. “And men like to have sons.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Little girls are fine.”

“You wouldn’t mind a girl?”

“I just met my new baby sister.”

Risa halfway sat up, startled. “Your mother—”

“Had her baby, a girl. Mary, for my father’s mother.”

“You fell in love instantly.”

He shook his head again, drawing her back down to lie against him. “No, I didn’t fall right in love. I hated her.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“She nearly killed my mother.”

“Oh, Jerome, I’m so sorry—”

“My mother is fine, but she went through a rough time.”

“Well, she is older—”

“She had a bad time with Sydney. Age doesn’t always matter. I’m going to be worried about you now, as well.”

She rose up again, leaning against his chest to look down into his eyes, and was startled by the depth of emotion she found there. She trembled, unnerved. “Alaina had her baby. A girl. She went to Cimarron—she had her first child in Washington, and was determined to get to Cimarron for this birth.”

“I know. I heard,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head and studying her still. “Do you recall that I told you to go to my family home when your time drew near.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t want you to do so anymore. I want you to stay here. Julian isn’t far away, and if you do have any complications—”

“Most women are having their babies with midwives, nurses—friends! It’s hard to spare doctors from the war effort these days.”

“The action is slow in Florida,” he said dryly. “And my cousin Julian is very close, and will come if you send for him. I’ll hope to be near myself, but God knows what February will bring.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “I need to go. It will be light soon.”

She leaned against him, feeling the beating of their hearts. “I wish…”

“What?”

“I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

“Really?” he inquired.

“Yes, really. I wish that I could curl up against your chest, and sleep there.”

He offered her a wry half smile. “I can’t even sweep you away aboard my ship now. You’re far too close to your time.”

“Not so close—”

“Too close to take a chance on bringing you aboard a blockade runner,” he said. “I have been lucky, thus far. Running past Union guns. But the war grows more desperate daily. I dare not risk your life—or that of our child.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Dear God, and I don’t want to go.”

He slid his fingers through her hair, cupping her skull and pulling her down to meet his lips. His kiss touched a spark within her, all too easily lit, and in moments they were entangled in the bedding, and one another. Oh, God, it was good, a storm, sweeping thunder, sensations that shattered deeply into heart and bone and soul…but when their passion was spent, he did not hold her.

He untangled himself from her arms, and rose quickly. Naked, by the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair, then reached for his damp breeches and slid into them. He plucked up her gown, coming back to her. She rose
to her knees, and he slipped the gown slowly over her head and shoulders, kissing her lips lightly as it fell around her.

He turned without words then, going out into the parlor for his jacket and boots. She followed him, and when he was completely dressed, she rushed to him, circling her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his chest. “If only I could summon you at any time—and have you so magically appear!” she whispered, tinged by just a shade of guilt as she remembered that she hadn’t really summoned him at all—she had wanted to find a way to bring Julian to her father.

She would find Julian by morning’s light. For now, she could not let her husband go.

His arms came tenderly around her. “If only I didn’t need to be summoned—if you could await me in my bunk each night! But now I’ll have tonight in my dreams for many weeks to come,” he said. “You apologize very, very well,” he teased.

“I was really very sorry.”

He smiled, and brushed her lips with a kiss once again. “I
must
go,” he told her.

Buckling on his scabbard, he walked to the door. He drew the bolt.

“Wait!”

She raced after him, throwing her arms around him, and kissing him one last time with trembling passion. Distracted, he wrapped his arms around her.

Then suddenly, the unbolted door was thrown open.

Jerome instantly stiffened. He cast her behind him protectively as he drew his sword, defensively striding through the open door to meet the threatened attack.

“Seize him!” came a cry, and blinding light was suddenly cast before their eyes.

“Sweet Jesu!” Jerome grated out. “Be on guard, don’t risk your life!” he warned, drawing tall and still as he shielded his eyes against the blinding light. Despite the reflection from the many lanterns now blazing upon them, Risa saw the soldiers lined up before them.

“Drop your weapon, Captain McKenzie!” shouted a soldier.

“Be damned!” Jerome roared. “Take me, gentlemen, if you will! I swear we’ll dine together in hell tonight!”

“No!” Risa shrieked as a dozen guns were cocked.

“Ready and aim, men! Captain, drop your weapon!”

Risa realized that someone had known that Jerome had come to her—and her house had been surrounded. But her husband wasn’t about to be taken. He’d never give himself up.

“Surrender, Captain!”

“Like hell!” Jerome returned. He moved forward.

Even if they shot him, Risa realized, he was so fast and agile he could bring several men down with him. But he didn’t intend to surrender.

“No!” she cried again. “No!” And she rushed out into the fray, casting herself in front of Jerome, and daring both the guns—and his sword arm.

“Hold fire!” a Union officer called.

And as he turned, Jerome lowered his sword. But the steel in his eyes pierced into her mercilessly. She realized then that he believed that she had planned this. That she had sent for him and purposely seduced him—to set him up for capture.

She longed to protest, to cry out. It would do no good.

He would never believe in her innocence.

He smiled at her, a bitter smile that mocked them both. “Bitch!” he said very softly.

Jerome was certain, beyond a doubt, that this affair had been staged.

She had betrayed him. With malice, and intent. It was obvious, and there was no denying it in his heart. She had known he was near; word had spread that he had come down the river. She had sent for him. And he had come.

And then, the Yanks had come for him.

Guns remained aimed upon him. He couldn’t win, and he knew it. And though the anger in his heart was blood-red and bitter, he was equally frightened for her. She’d wanted him taken, not killed. “Fool!” he cried angrily to Risa, and despite the dark emotions swirling in him, he caught her forcefully, and set her aside. He moved his sword as he did so, and he instantly heard the guns clicking again.

“Captain, please!” the Yank soldier in charge cried.

Grating his teeth, Jerome set his sword on the ground.

Frankly, he didn’t know what the hell he’d been doing.

He knew that he didn’t want to die, and that his furious actions against a company of so many Yankee soldiers had been pure suicide. And though he surely couldn’t tell his wife that he was grateful she had thrown herself in front of him, somewhere deep inside, he knew that he was.

Of course, his temper was sizzling. Scorching.

The situation was mortifying, and he wanted to strike out at her with the ever deepening realization of how easily she had played him for a fool. Betrayed him.

Rage burned its way into his soul.

She had planned this, the cunning little Yankee seductress had planned this! She had set him up, and he, the great sea captain, the scourge of the seven seas, the Devil wraith who had taken out at least a dozen enemy ships, had fallen like any fool.

He was being taken prisoner. Handed over by a woman.

“Jerome!”

Her eyes were on his. Beautiful eyes. Aquamarine. Sea eyes, liquid eyes. Shimmering with theatrical tears, she was coming toward him.

He was not moved.

He stared into her eyes, swept his gaze over the classical beauty of her features, noted the full auburn cloak of her hair, and the marble perfection of her flesh.

He turned his back on her.

“Will someone be so good as to escort General Magee’s daughter back into the house?” he demanded coldly. “And then, gentlemen, I surrender. Bring on your shackles, if you will. I think I might welcome a known prison of brick and steel—rather than the invisible snares that take a man unwary.”