Law, Susan Kay (35 page)

She realized he wasn't going to tell her. "Damn you!" she
cried, pounding on his chest. He caught her wrists to stop her, his grip
painless but firm.

"Even if I told you, why would you believe me?"

The impact of his words sent her thoughts reeling.
He had lied
to her.
Still, she had never completely
felt
it, had never truly
believed that he was fully prepared to lie to her again.

"It would be so easy," he said slowly. "I could
tell you that I work for the Americans. Why not? It would make you happy, and
you would believe me, wouldn't you?"

Damn him.
She
would
have believed, would
have accepted his allegiance without a second thought.

"God damn you!" Heat flashed in her chest and scorched
behind her eyes. "You liar!" She twisted her arms violently to free
them, and the skin on her wrists burned. Blindly, she ran toward the ladder and
escape.

"Yes!" He caught her easily, grabbing her from behind
and pushing her up against the wall under the high peaked roof of the loft. He
held her there, caged by his big body and the thick arms planted on either side
of her head. "I lied."

His eyes were fiery blue, brimming with unleashed violence. So
many times she'd looked into those eyes, and all she'd ever seen was
gentleness. Why hadn't she ever seen the capacity for ruthlessness, for fury?

Still, she felt no fear. If there was one thing she knew, with a
soul-deep certainty that seemed grounded in her bones, it was that his violence
would never be turned on her. Even as his body held hers against the wall, it
touched her softly, with no hint of a threat. His gaze roamed over her face,
and she felt as if his fingers whispered over her features. His warmth crept
through her clothes, and, suddenly, she felt more cradled than caged.

"That's what I do, Beth. I lie." The smooth rumble of
his voice was harsh now, singed with anguish. "To you, to everyone... even
to myself."

He was close now, so close she could feel the motion of his chest
as he breathed. "Don't ever believe what I tell you, Beth." He
dropped his head, his lips hovering inches from hers. "Even when I tell
you I love you."

His lips brushed hers when he spoke, and she began to tremble,
quaking between the hard stone at her back and the warm man at her front.

"Especially when I say I love you."

He kissed her then; his lips were hard, searching, demanding
almost to the point of desperation. Her senses clouded, filled with Jonathan.
His chest was hard against her breasts, and her nostrils filled with the sweet,
earthy scents of hay and skin. The sound of his exhalation sighed past her ear;
tiny points of lights, like drunken stars, whirled behind her closed lids.

And her heart believed. Despite it all, despite all the evidence,
despite his self-condemnation, and despite the logic of her own brain, her
heart and body believed him.

The force of will that had made it possible for him to deceive
every person he came in contact with for three years, the will that propelled
him, injured and nearly insensate, to this stable, was the only thing that allowed
him to wrench his lips from hers. Even so, he felt the loss of her mouth so
acutely it was nearly painful.

Her eyes were wide, dark, and beautiful, like those of a wild doe
caught unaware, unsure if there was danger. And he knew, with terrible certainty,
that
he
was the danger.

He tried to force himself to push away, tried so hard his arms
shook with the effort. The feel of her was so exquisitely lovely he couldn't
bring himself to do it.

But the last time he had touched her, it had been in this stable,
too. He had taken her—he couldn't make it sound better by calling it something
else, for he had taken—he had done so in a matter of minutes, without even
bothering to remove her clothes. He had done it in the loft of a stable, as if
she were a barmaid or domestic servant, a setting so fabled it was cliche. A
roll in the hay. And he had let her—no, seduced her into making love with a man
who didn't exist.

She deserved better than straw and fumbles, rapidity and lies. She
deserved snowy sheets and a fresh, downy mattress tick, whispered endearments
and genuine promises.

She deserved honor. He had given her none.

Remorse worked where guilt had failed. He let her go, moving back
and turning away, unable to look at the revulsion and betrayal he was sure must
be etched on her angular features.

His was a job that depended on expediency and left very little
room for honor; he found one remaining shred, and he clutched it. The demands
of his body, heavy and swollen, were nearly impossible to subdue. Rubbing a
palm over his face, he conjured up the image of the battlefield, letting the
dirt, gore, and ugliness remind him of all the reasons he must not touch her
again.

There was the rustle of straw, and he knew she was leaving. He
prayed it would be quickly, before the last battered shards of his integrity
wore out.

And then he felt her touch.

His back had been to her, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched.
She had known—she had
felt
—his despair, and she had realized one thing:
she could not leave him like this. She came to stand before him and placed her
hand on his chest, spreading her fingers wide to touch as much of him as
possible. Heat seeped through the fine linen shirt, warming her palm, and she
felt the accelerating rhythm of his heart.

He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and wild.

"Oh, God, Beth." His throat worked convulsively.
"When I close my eyes, all I see is blood. But when I touch you, all I see
is you."

She took his hand and placed it over her heart. His big hand
rested there, motionless, the long fingers spreading over the upper swell of
her breast, and her own heartbeat quickened.

"Then touch me," she whispered.

For a moment, she
thought he wasn't going to do it. Then he
placed his hand over hers where it rested on his chest, pressing it to him. He
stepped closer and, slowly—far, far too slowly—lowered his head.

He brushed his mouth over her face, over her temple, her cheek,
her eyelids, her chin, with delicate little touches that left her yearning for
more, and she wondered if each place he kissed glowed. It certainly felt like
it.

He kissed the spot where her jaw met her neck, and the tip of her
nose, then let his lips roam along the edge of her hairline. And finally, his
mouth found hers. His lips were supple and mobile, playing lightly, drawing
subtle little sighs from her, coming back for more. His tongue traced the edges
of her lips, lingering here, exploring there, as if there were all the time in
the world, and skated along the seam of her mouth.

He gave a harsh sigh, put his palm on the back of her head, and
drew her close. His other arm came around her back, he tucked her head under
his chin, and held her. Just held her.

They stood there, bodies pressed together, slowly rocking back and
forth. Tentatively, she slipped her arms around his neck and found the ribbon
binding his hair. A single, sharp yank and his hair was free, spilling down
around his shoulders and over her hands. Sliding her fingers through it, she
marveled at the silky texture.

"Oh, Beth." He rubbed his cheek against the top of her
head. "For the rest of my life, every time I smell lavender, I think I'll
get hard."

He thrust his hips, just once, just enough so she could feel him,
and her cheeks burned. She buried her face against his shoulder.

"Beth." He sounded lighthearted, and her own heart
swelled with joy. He bent, catching her behind the knees, and swept her into
his arms.

His eyes gleamed with a note of wickedness, and he grinned.
"If you only knew..."

He carried her easily over to his makeshift pallet, muttering
under his breath as he tried, with his toe, to kick it into some semblance of
order. He looked down at the jumbled blankets, and regarded her seriously.

"I'm sorry, Beth. You deserve better."

"Shh." She stopped his words with her mouth. He resisted
for a moment, then yielded, his lips twisting over hers, becoming more
insistent. He lowered her to the blanket without breaking the contact of their
bodies, following her down.

Once she'd thought his kiss was magic. Now she knew it was
something stronger than that, darker, an enchantment she didn't want to resist.
He slid his tongue wetly along the inside of her lower lip, and she opened her
mouth, silently beckoning him deeper.

His tongue flirted with hers, teasing, probing the depths of her
mouth. She lifted her head, trying to get closer, and he obliged, deepening the
kiss until her head reeled as if she'd sampled far too much of her father's
supplies.

He drew back, propping himself on an elbow, one leg resting
intimately between hers. Her regarded her with absolute concentration, and she
knew he thought of nothing else but her and was glad of it.

Her thick braid lay over one shoulder, and he ran his hand down
the length of it. The back of his hand brushed her breast along the way, and
she caught her breath at the abrupt tightening of her nipple.

"May I?" he asked, holding up the end of her braid,
which was wrapped with a length of string.

"Of course."

He worked the twine free, then slowly undid the braid, completely
absorbed in his task. "There are so many colors in your hair. Sunshine and
moonbeams, ripe wheat and fresh earth." He let a strand curl in his palm.
"So vibrant. Alive." He smiled at her, his teeth flashing white
through the dimness in the loft. "Like you."

"Jonathan," she protested, unused to such praise.

"Hush now. I'm busy."

With a single-minded sense of purpose, he set himself to divesting
her of her clothes, seemingly undeterred by the flush of embarrassment she felt
heating her cheeks.

Her blouse was over her head nearly before she realized it had
been unbuttoned. She was distracted, her head muddled from his intoxicating
kisses and the caresses he dropped on exposed portions of her body. Her skirt
followed, tossed over his shoulder, and he flashed a grin that should have
belonged to a storied pirate.

His fingers were deft, and he dealt with her corset with one pull
on the single string. With a slight grimace, he flipped it, too, somewhere in
the gloom behind him.

"I wouldn't have thought you would wear one of those."

"It comforts Mother."

"Still..." His hands circled her waist, rubbing with
gentle care. "You certainly don't need one."

"I'm hardly small, Jonathan."

"Compared to me..."

"Compared to you, Goliath was small."

"Perhaps." His gaze traced over her slowly, and the
flash of blue in his eyes told her how much he liked what he saw. "Do you
know what a pleasure it is, not to have to worry about a woman's fragility or
my clumsiness?"

The snug waistband of her petticoats suddenly loosened, and she
knew he'd already untied the tapes. "You are never clumsy unless you
intend it."

"Lift up." She complied, and the fine cambric whispered
over her skin as he slipped her chemise over her head. She was sensitized by
his touch and his kisses, and the slight friction of the fabric felt nothing
like it ever had before. It was no longer innocuous and everyday; now it hinted
of caresses and hidden pleasures.

Her shoes and stockings were the work of a moment. He paid no
attention to her hesitation and stripped off her petticoats and pocket tapes.

His obvious approval left little room for modesty. She lay there,
sprawled naked against the scratchy blanket, and his gaze was almost a touch.

As stunning as the time before had been, with the thunder and
impenetrable blackness, the addition of sight seemed to sharpen her other
senses. It was arousing simply to watch the play of emotions on his face, to
see his nostrils flare, his eyes darken, and his features sharpen, and to know
that she had caused it.

He was beautiful, lit with fire and passion. But he wore far too
many clothes.

She sat up and reached for the neck of his shirt. He caught her
hands and stopped her.

"Why?" she asked.

"Beth..." There was a flicker of something disturbing in
his eyes.

"Please. I want to see you."

His jaw twitched and he nearly ripped off the leather jerkin. He
yanked the shirt over his head and balled it up, hurling it almost violently
against the sharply slanting roof of the loft.

The wrappings of the bandage slashed white across his chest,
drawing her attention. It seemed almost sacrilegious to scar that sculpted
perfection, yet it had happened twice.

His muscles bulged as he stretched out beside her, and once more
his gaze swept her body.

"You still wear the beads." His voice held a note of
wonder.

She swallowed. "Always."