The Rebel Bride (26 page)

K
ate opened her eyes and blinked rapily, trying to free her mind of the terrifying remnants of her nightmare. She shuddered, for the fear was still so very real, and tried to rise, but her body wouldn’t obey her. She focused her eyes in an effort to clear away the clinging light-headedness and realized with a start that she wasn’t in her own room. She hadn’t dreamed the man, the drugged cloth pressed over her face. She made a determined effort to rise, only to find that her arms were pulled above her head and her wrists securely tied to the posts of a bed. She lifted her head from the pillow and tugged with all her strength, but she couldn’t free herself.

She lay back, panting, and tried to calm herself. Why had the man brought her to this place? There had to be some mistake, he had to have believed she was another woman, a stranger. She realized in that instant that she wasn’t wearing her riding habit. She saw the skirt, blouse, and jacket neatly folded over a chair. Even her boots were placed next to the chair. All she was wearing was her shift. With terrifying clarity she pictured herself half-clothed, the cotton shift coming only to mid-thigh, her arms drawn away from her body. He had tied her down, she was helpless. What did he want with her? Somewhere, deep within her, she knew why she was tied down, knew what he wanted with her, knew exactly what would happen, knew what this man would do to her.

Her mind seemed to snap with the knowledge, and she was sent reeling to the edge of a yawning gulf of blackness. All she knew was lost to her as the blackness engulfed her, sucking her down farther and farther into its
depths. She knew the blackness. At last it had come to her fully. She saw herself, small and cowering, then struggling frantically, trapped by she knew not what. Intense, rending pain tore through her, and above the pain she heard cruel, deep voices, and panting, raw and ugly. Then there were screaming, furious voices that somehow intensified the pain—no, just one screaming voice, and it was a man’s voice and she could see spittle flying out of his mouth, but she didn’t know who he was. But the screaming and cursing her didn’t stop.

She couldn’t bring her hands to cover her ears, to blot out the horror of the pain and the voices. She screamed and the images and the voices faded, drawing away from her, becoming as fragments of whispers, strewn as distant echoes to the farthest reaches of another place.

She became aware of the anguished sound of her cries and felt beads of sweat sting her eyes. She thought at that moment that perhaps she was mad, for she couldn’t understand what had happened to her. The present righted itself and she saw that nothing had changed. She was still tied down to a bed, wearing only her shift. She tried to regain her calm, forcing herself to gaze about the unfamiliar room, and found the presence of the solid pieces of furniture somehow reassuring.

The sound of a key turning in the lock brought her eyes, fearful, yet hopeful, to the door. The man, her captor, slowly entered the room, his long cloak swirling about his ankles as he turned and grated the key in the lock. He was still enveloped in hat and mask, even wearing gloves on his hands. Kate stared at him, her eyes a darkening green, now wide with fear and the starkness of her knowledge. He stopped beside her, and before Kate could understand what he was about, he leaned over her and in a swift motion drew a length of black cloth from his pocket and folded it over her eyes. She was plunged into darkness. Like a trapped, frenzied animal, she thrashed her head from side to side as the man jerked her forward and tied the cloth in a secure knot behind her head.

In that moment she wondered if she’d been brought
to this place to die. Unbidden, Julien’s calm, handsome face rose in her mind’s eye. She saw him turn from her, felt his withdrawal from her, saw his eyes become colder than a winter dawn.

She began to tremble violently, and the sickening, jeering voices pounded again in her head, then receded as if they had never existed. Sudden anger kindled within her and burned away her trembling with its intensity. How dare this man bind and blindfold her! She jerked up her head and screamed at him, “You filthy pig, how dare you! My husband, the earl of March, will kill you if you do not instantly release me. Do you understand me?” There was only a deadening silence, save for the harsh ugliness of her own breathing.

She hated the silence, hated him, this unknown man, and she yelled through the darkness, through the silence, “Damn you to hell, you coward, are you afraid that I’ll see your ugliness? Damn you, let me see you!”

Still the man said nothing, not in English, not in German, but she heard him move away from her. She fell back against the pillow, drained, so afraid she was numb with it. As the precious minutes passed, she thought that he had understood and was going to leave her alone. Then, to her horror, she felt him sit on the side of the bed beside her. She felt his breath hot on her face. His lips came down upon hers, gentle yet demanding. He’d blindfolded her so he could take off his mask. He didn’t want her to see him. Why? She clamped her mouth firmly shut and felt his lips move to her throat, and his hands lightly caress her shoulders.

The warmth of the room touched her skin as he slowly cut the thin straps off her shoulders, pulling the soft cotton down over her breasts. He pushed the shift to her waist, where it lay bunched about her.

The last remnants of what she knew, of what she understood, of what she thought she was, left her in that instant. There was a blankness in her mind, as if suddenly there was a hole and there was nothing inside it, save an undefined dread that mingled with an ugliness she knew was there also—buried, but still there—and it
left her nearly senseless. Tiny points of light exploded in her mind, and she realized dimly that she’d been holding her breath. She opened her mouth, and precious air flew past her constricted throat into her chest. She could feel her breasts heaving, but she couldn’t stop their deep upward and downward movement. His fingers were on her forehead, gently pushing back tendrils of hair. She tried to evade him, pulling away as far as her bonds would allow. But his fingers were tracing the line of her cheek, her lips, her throat. She wanted desperately to plead with him to stop, but she could find no words.

The man’s hands were on her shoulders, firm, strong hands, hands that could and would hurt her, she knew it, deep down inside her, she knew hurt would come from his hands. She grew still, rigid, as his fingers moved to her breasts, now kneading her, caressing her, lifting her breasts in his hands, holding them, gently squeezing, then lightly flicking his fingertips over her nipples until they grew hard and taut. Words came from deep inside her, and she knew they were for naught, these words of hers, yet they spoke themselves anyway. “I beg of you, please don’t do this to me, please, please no, no—”

His hands left her breasts, and in the long, silent moment that followed, she knew he was looking at her, not at her breasts but at her face. She sensed a hesitancy in him. If only she could see! Her eyes strained, but there was only blackness.

He came down over her body and enfolded her in his arms, burying his face against her neck, holding her so tightly that she couldn’t breathe.

She knew in that instant she had lost.

Finally he lifted himself off her, and his hands traveled quickly, urgently, back to her breasts. She felt his mouth upon her, kissing and nibbling her throat and shoulders, until finally his lips and hands played together over her breasts. There was no pain from his hands, just something infinitely worse—warmth, strength, and a skill that knew her flesh, knew what to do and when to do it. She cried out, trying to twist free of his hands, of his mouth. His hands moved to encircle her waist, and as she tried
to arch and wrench away, he eased them beneath her to stroke her back.

Tears scalded her eyes and dampened the black cloth that blinded her. She heard her own voice, begging and pleading with him to stop, but her words broke from her mouth only as meaningless sounds, helpless sounds.

His hands left her back and tugged at the material about her waist. In a swift motion he slipped the shift cloth from beneath her hips, stripping it down her legs, leaving her naked.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the man, and Kate knew that he was staring at her, examining her body. She had never been so aware of her body, of its purpose and its meaning to men.

She was rapidly growing exhausted. The futility of her struggles, her fear, were sapping her strength. She stilled, her body tensed. The damp cloth, salty from her tears, burned her eyes. She turned her head on the pillow and clamped her jaws together, waiting, waiting—for what, she didn’t know, but deep down, somehow, she did know.

His weight came down on the bed and his naked shoulders pressed against her body. Not only had he taken off his mask, he’d also stripped off all his clothes. His flesh was hot and smooth against hers. His lips touched her waist and roved downward to her belly, his tongue scalding against her skin. She pushed her hips down into the softness of the bed, but it seemed to excite him only more. His mouth was sweet and gentle and insistent, yet it burned her, and she hated his mouth and those hands of his that seemed to know just where to touch her, where to caress her, where to press and stroke. She hated herself, for in the next instant, she felt a tiny shock of sensation that was like a pain in her belly, low and deep, but there, and she yelled against it, cursing him, her voice giving her back to herself, but just for a moment, for he didn’t stop touching her, his fingers almost pleading with her flesh to respond to him. She cursed him and cursed him again and again, but there it was again, that shock of sensation, that near-pain so intense, so urgent, and she knew it was pleasure, a woman’s special pleasure,
and she fought with everything in her to deny it, to deny him, to save herself.

She could picture him, now balanced on his elbow gazing down at her. His fingers played over the softness of her belly, and paused, ever so slightly, before closing over the curly auburn triangle of hair. His touch was feather light, never more than feather light, but so knowing, always knowing, searching and learning her.

Why? Why wasn’t he savaging her? She knew it was rape, yet he wasn’t acting the rapist. His gentleness, his quiet exploration, his insistence that she respond, didn’t fit, and she was lost in confusion and fear and the growing feelings he was arousing in her.

His fingers continued their exploration, pressing and probing the softness between her thighs.

She cried out in shock, the humiliation of it burning deep inside her, and she cursed him again, then begged him to leave her alone, please, just to leave her alone for a moment, just for a minute. But slowly and rhythmically he stroked her, his other hand roving upward to stroke and learn her breasts.

Impossible to struggle free of him, for his hands seemed to touch and probe every part of her body, the gentle pressure of his fingers burning deeper and deeper. Exhausted, she ceased her struggles. She heard her own sobs, felt her body, and knew that he was learning her as she herself was learning to fence, learning her, studying her, knowing her. She tried to detach her mind, but she couldn’t. She was aware of his every touch now.

A gasp of shock broke her sobs when his fingers ceased their rhythmic caressing and she felt his mouth upon her. Shock held her rigid for a moment, then she jerked her hips from side to side, but he only slid his hands under her and lifted her upward. His tongue flicked over her lightly, tentatively, gently tugging, possessing her.

She lay stiff and unyielding, her body and mind outraged, when suddenly an intense sensation, an almost painful searing, exploded in her loins. Her mind plummeted and merged with the feeling, consuming her with its strength. The searing sensation faded, leaving her
weak and uncertain of what had happened. She tensed every muscle and held her breath. But his mouth was burning her, white-hot and deep.

Julien’s face rose sharply in her mind. Dear God, she was betraying him. Her body was responding and she couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even slow it now, for the man knew, he knew exactly what to do and how to do it. She didn’t know him, couldn’t see him, yet his hands and his mouth were becoming part of her.

All the words her father had screamed at her were true. She was a slut, a whore. Dear God, she was no better than Julien’s lustful mistresses.

She felt the sensation building again, fanning throughout her body. Her mind screamed for him to stop, but only low, feverish moans came from her mouth. Frenzied waves of the exquisite inflaming pleasure swept through her body. Somehow, in the distant recesses of her mind, she felt that if he were to stop, she would die. She lost her will to fight him and strained her hips upward toward his mouth, urging him, becoming one with him. She trembled uncontrollably as shock after shock of ecstatic pleasure shot down her legs and up into her belly.

Slowly the waves of pleasure lessened, and a soft glow of warmth spread through her body, leaving her weak and shaking. The man’s mouth left her.

Julien shifted his position and lay his full length beside her, his hands now moving over her belly and breasts more urgently. He couldn’t wait longer, he had to have her now. He’d brought her to pleasure, despite her struggles, and he knew she’d fought him with everything in her. Yet he’d brought her to the edge and eased her over it, and it was because he knew her, knew she was part of him even though she’d denied it. Perhaps even her body recognized him. He wanted to believe it so. Ah, but he couldn’t wait.

He straightened over her and gently parted her. She gave a cry of surprise as he slowly entered her. Blood pounded in his temples, yet he knew he must control himself, for she was a virgin and he didn’t want to hurt
her. She was soft and yielding, her body still shivering from the small aftershocks of the release he’d given her. No, he had to be controlled, go slowly. He pushed deeper into her, feeling for her maidenhead.