“Now you would have me know you were jealous of your own son!”
“No, Sirena,” Regan had said truthfully, his rage calming and a tenderness creeping into his tone, “both of us know we exaggerate. It wasn't nearly the picture we paint. You were a loving mother and I a loving father. We both know this. Scenes of our son resting against your breast still haunt me. Would that we could have another child to soothe your sorrow and lighten my heart.” A gentleness shone in Regan's eyes as Sirena looked up at him. His golden head had been framed by the blue of the sky and the deepness of his eyes paled the heavens. He pulled Sirena close, crushing her against him, reveling in the feel of her breasts firm and full against his chest and the fragility of her waist's small span.
Sirena's senses had been filled with him, this man who could still quench her desires and fill her life and consume her, robbing her of every thought save him. The sun had beat warmly against her back but warmer still had been contact of their flesh; her body against his, his mouth upon hers, drinking in the sweetness of her kiss.
Regan's hands had explored the soft swell of her breasts and he had reached lower to press her hips more firmly against him. Their thighs had strained toward union and their breath came in rasps of long-suppressed passion. Here was life, here was promise in Regan's arms. His fingers found the lacings of her gown and she had felt the bindings loosening and the touch of his hand against her bare flesh. Her arms had tightened about his neck, pulling his head down to her, feeling his breath upon her cheek. She had offered him her mouth, her breasts, her rapture and the sweet remembered sharing between them became alive again.
Regan had been overcome with the return of his ardor and had felt the desire within his wife bloom to full flower. The sensation was heady, drowning his senses in the flood tide of longing for her. He had tasted her salty tears running in rivulets down her cheeks to the place where their lips met.
Sirena had felt herself on the verge of giving herself to him when the sound of Regan's booted foot crunched upon the splintered glass from the lantern. The sound had penetrated her being and imbedded itself in her soul. Fraught with anger she had wrested herself from his embrace. “Would you take me here within sight of Mikel's grave? Where is your decency? Upon the very earth which covers his tiny coffin? You rutting scurve! To think I almost was a party to your perfidy!”
Regan's gaze locked with Sirena's. Slowly and deliberately he had ground another shard beneath his heel. “Where will you lay with me, Sirena?” he asked in controlled fury. “Not anywhere near here, not within the walls of our bedroom, not upon a deserted windswept island . . . where, Sirena? Where will you give yourself to me?”
The brilliant sparks had seemed to fly from Sirena' eyes, the furies unbound her rage as she had turned to face him. Were she a dragon her nostrils would have spewed fire, were she an angel the vengeance of Heaven would have crashed down upon him. Her voice was a low, menacing hiss and the cords of her neck bespoke hatred. “I am not Gretchen Lindenreich. That German bitch, that flagrant whore, who would have no respect for those things sacred. She would have lain with you upon any grave, upon any deserted isle, indeed upon the Avenue of Lions within the heart of Batavia for all of Java to witness!”
Regan had knotted his hands into fists, his rage consuming him, depriving him of all good sense. “How easily you spit Gretchen's name,” he had menaced, “Now that she's dead and therefore no threat. Leave the dead be, Sirena.”
“How quickly you jump to her defense! If that German bitch were here among the living, we would not be here spitting like two cats. You'd be in her bed!”
“You could do with a bit of the warmth Gretchen yielded to me!” Regan had heaved in injury.
“To you and any other man upon the island!”
“Gretchen was always there,” Regan had said in a lowered tone, his eyes piercing Sirena's with meaning.
Her eyes had murdered him as her reflexes had their way and the palm of her hand stung the flesh of his cheek in a resounding blow.
Without a second's hesitation, Regan had retaliated in kind, sending her a blow which had knocked her off her feet and left her sprawling upon the shallow mound of Mikel's grave.
That had been nearly six months ago and the same measured footsteps by which he had left her there, sobbing upon the soft earth, were now advancing upon her as she stood sentinel at the doors. She looked again at Regan's reflection in the dark glass and saw there an expression about his mouth and a light in his eyes which spoke of his intentions.
Sirena withdrew from the doors and skirted past a small table, her movements wary and her sea-green eyes feral. Her fists, alabaster white in the dim lamplit room, clenched tightly into balls as she turned to face her husband.