Leslie LaFoy (42 page)

“You stay right there,” Edmund growled, “and hope to hell she doesn't bring charges for battery.”

“It's all right, baby,” Elsbeth crooned, gently rocking her back and forth. “Hush. Mama's here and she won't let him hurt you.”

“Mama?” Devon repeated softly, what little air Edmund had left in him catching high in his throat. Mama? Darice was Aunt Elsbeth's daughter? No. It couldn't be. But… looking at them in that light, he could see a faint resemblance. It wasn't entirely unbelievable. Darice his cousin?

His mother gasped and pressed her hands over her stomach. “Oh, Elsbeth. Oh dear. You never told me…”

“Of course I didn't, you stupid twit,” Elsbeth snapped, her eyes obsidian coals. “You were his wife.”

Realization struck like a lightning bolt, branching, searing each facet of Devon's world. His stomach clenched and then heaved upward as every ounce of his strength poured out the soles of his feet. “Jesus,” he moaned, feeling himself sliding down the wall and unable to care. He'd lain with his half sister, his cousin. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

As though through a fog, he heard Darice screech, saw her slap Elsbeth hard across the face. “Damn your running mouth! This wasn't over! We could have yet had it all the easy way.”

And then Edmund was talking, the rumble of his voice passing through his arm and into the center of Devon's chest. “In the name of basic human decency, Darice, you and your mother will be allowed to spend the rest of the night here. But at dawn you will both vacate the premises, never to return. If necessary, I'll file a petition asking that the court bar you from contact of any sort with any member of the Rivard family. Have I made the terms clear?”

“Rosewind belongs to me!” Darice screamed, climbing to her feet and fisting her hands at her sides. Elsbeth huddled on the floor, weeping softly into her hands. “It's more my birthright than it is Devon's and Wyndom's! I'm the firstborn! I'll sue for it if I have to!”

Edmund let go of him and whirled away. Devon caught himself on the edge of the dresser, willing his legs
to hold him upright, praying to awaken from this hideous nightmare.

“So you can try to get what you couldn't by the unholiest of schemes?” Edmund raged in Darice's upturned, defiant face. “Go ahead, Darice. Take it to court. I dare you to!”

So all the world could know the blackness of his crime. Darice would do it just for that end. Sickened and reeling, Devon stumbled toward the door, wanting only to escape, now and forever. Better a bullet in his brain than to face the shame and humiliation she'd bring down on him, on Rosewind.

Claire… She stood in the doorway, her eyes huge and searching as she watched him come toward her. What she had to think of him. She knew; he'd told her himself. The best and brightest thing that had ever happened to him, to Rosewind, was lost forever, snuffed out in a single instant of confession and realization.

“Devon,” she began, stepping back into the hall and into his path.

Unable to meet her gaze, unwilling to see the loathing in her eyes, he roughly pushed past her and resolutely made his way down the darkened hall toward his room.

HERE WAS MUCH
to be done, and while his strides were long and purposeful, his mind flitted from one task to the other without logic. Zeke needed to be charged with getting the rest of the crops planted. Ephram. He had to do something about Ephram. And Hannah. And rewrite certain provisions of his will. Rosewind couldn't go to Wyndom by default. Claire. He'd leave it to Claire. She'd take care of it. It would be safe in her hands.

He stopped just inside his room as yet another realization hit him. It would be a cruelty to give Claire the responsibility for his mother, brother, and Rosewind. The stain of public scandal would be dark and forever attached to this place, to his name. Why would she want to live the rest of her life with the shame? No, now more than ever, she needed to make her future in England. Better that Rosewind be lost than that Claire be forced to bear the burden of it.

“Devon?”

He started. He needed to talk to her, to be sure she understood all that was going to happen in the days ahead and why the course was unavoidable. But not now. Now he didn't have the strength or the courage to make the words come out right. Without looking back at her, his heart racing and his throat tightening, he stepped further into his room, saying tersely, “Leave me alone.”

“No.” So soft, so gentle. “I won't.”

He wanted to turn on her, to rail and snarl and frighten her away. And he couldn't. It took every measure of his will to stand where he was and keep the tears in his throat from crawling any higher. He was so tired. Closing his eyes, he tried to summon the strength to keep going for just a few moments more.

The touch of her hand against his cheek was startling in its warmth, its tenderness. “Don't touch me, Claire,” he commanded, leaning away. “I won't foul—”

She grabbed his shirtfront, twisting the linen tight in her fists and robbing him of words and the ability to do more than stare down at her. With stunning strength, she pulled him toward her. “I don't believe them,” she declared, her voice resonating with conviction, her eyes bright with certainty. “The word of two vipers means nothing, Devon. They have to prove it.”

She hadn't known his father, didn't understand that it was not only possible, but very likely. “And if they can?” he asked, bracing himself for the telltale flicker of hesitation, the instinctive flinch of disgust.

“It doesn't matter,” she answered instantly, her voice still strong and even. Holding him fast with one hand, with the other she gently cupped his cheek again. “You didn't know. If there is a sin, it's hers, Devon. Hers and Elsbeth's.”

He hadn't known. He honestly hadn't. The slightest suspicion had never even crossed his mind.

“Claire, how can you bear to touch me?” he asked,
gently extracting his shirt from her grasp. “How can you possibly want me?”

“I simply do,” she answered, her arms falling to her sides. “Can't wanting you be enough, Devon?”

If only it were as simple as wanting. And taking. But it wasn't this time; not with this woman. She met his gaze unflinchingly, her eyes filled not with the fires of mindless passion but with the softness of love, of wanting to heal his heart and soul. No other woman had ever looked at him that way. No other woman had ever wanted to give herself to him for the sake of the giving. And he'd never needed to be loved as much as he did in that moment.

He could take; he knew how. It was all he'd ever done, all he'd ever had to do. The women in his past had been conquests. Gaining their surrender had been a matter of deliberate calculation and timing, of subtly negotiating terms that allowed them both to walk away pretending it had never happened. No ties. No bonds.

But with Claire… There was no game to play, no surrender to cajole or manipulate. There was nothing to take. For the first time in his life he had only to accept the gift of another's heart. And he didn't know how to do it.

“Devon?”

His knees weak, he leaned down to feather a kiss across her lips, then drew back to take the hem of his shirt in his hands and peel it over his head. Dropping it blindly to the floor, he reached for her hand and placed it in the center of his chest, holding it over his overbrimming heart. Wonder filled her eyes as her gaze dropped to their hands.

“Feel that?” he asked. Her nod was almost imperceptible. “Do you know why it's beating so hard, so fast?” Her lips formed a “No” but she made no sound. “Because I'm scared.”

“Of what?” she whispered, looking up at him.

“I want your first time to be perfect,” he confessed. “And I know it can't be. There'll be pain and there's nothing I can do to spare you. I'll be the cause of it.”

“Then make it quick, one moment that can be lost in a thousand moments of pleasure. I want to make you happy, Devon. I've never wanted anything more in my life.”

His heart swelled, pressing the air from his lungs. He wasn't alone in this moment. She stood with him, willing to risk everything for the chance of giving from the heart. And asking only that he take the same risk for her.

He reached out and lifted the end of the coverlet draped over her shoulder, drawing it back and letting it fall from his hand. The whole of it unwound and slipped away from her, pooling at her feet and baring her to his gaze. She didn't flinch, didn't blush, but stood silently before him, her hand still pressed to his heart and smiling so softly, so invitingly.

Where his eyes went, his hands followed. The curve of her cheek, her shoulders, her breasts. He cupped her in his hands and watched the dark crests harden and peak. Lifting his gaze to her face, he traced the pads of his thumbs over the tips and watched her lips soften and part, watched her eyes darken with yearning.

He brushed her once more and she moaned softly and arched into the caress. Achingly hard, he released his claim to her breasts to undo the buttons at his hips, his breath catching as she drew the fabric aside.

He lowered his head to reverently kiss her as he discarded his breeches. She touched her tongue to his and he was undone. There was nothing beyond her and that moment; no past, no future. Only the sweet taste of her lips, the heady promise of losing himself in her. Pledge and consequence were cindered and swirled away as need became hunger, reverence abandon.

He wrapped her in his arms, kissing her deeply, and
drawing her against the length of his body. She melded into him, her breasts an exquisite heat branding his chest, her hands slipping back to grasp his hips and bring them hard against her own. He ravaged her mouth, his tongue probing, twining with hers. She arched into him, moaning, settling her hips closer. His arms went around her and he cupped her backside as he caught her lower lip between his teeth and slowly shifted his hips against hers, pressing and stroking in a dance as old as time.

Flawlessly catching the rhythm, she moved with him, faster and harder, her breathing ragged and tiny, whispered pleas brushing over his lips. And he obeyed. Lifting her from her feet, he turned and laid her on the edge of the bed. Quickly, regretting the necessity, he got a lambskin sheath from the nightstand drawer and protected them both. Returning to her, he kissed her and settled himself between her parted legs. Shuddering at the warmth and tightness of her closing around him, he pressed into her as slowly as he could, trying to give her time to adjust to the fullness of his possession, savoring the perfect friction as she shifted to accommodate him.

“Oh God, Devon,” she moaned, arching up to invite him deeper. “It doesn't hurt at all.”

But he knew that it would. He drew back a bit and then gently pressed forward again, being mindful of going no farther than he already had. With each stroke she arched another degree higher, fisted the sheets just a little bit tighter. He shivered once with the strain of holding back and then surrendered, letting her draw him deep and against her maidenhead. She gasped at the contact and that was all the time he gave her. Clenching his teeth, he pulled her hips hard against his and thrust past the barrier, filling her completely and making her his.