Lost Lady (12 page)

“No,” she whispered, blinking back tears. His words were so logical. Of course she was going to have a baby, and of course she'd marry him; there wasn't much else she could do because she knew she couldn't escape Travis when she had something he owned. As for her clothes, what did they matter? If she could get married without love, she could certainly do so without a pretty dress.

“I'm ready,” she said grimly.

“It's not an execution,” he chuckled. “Maybe tonight I can make up for today.”

As she walked ahead of him into the parlor, she knew he'd never understand. A wedding was supposed to be a woman's greatest moment, a time when she felt everyone loved her and wished her great happiness. For the rest of her life she'd remember this secretive, dreary little ceremony, surrounded by strangers, the marriage taking place not because of herself but because of what she carried in her stomach. Mechanically, at the proper time, she said she would take Travis for her husband and ignored the searching look he gave her. When it came time for him to place a ring on her finger, Martha offered her own, but Regan shrugged and said politely that a ring didn't matter.

By the end of the ceremony no one was smiling, and when Travis turned to kiss her, Regan offered him her cheek. She barely tasted the wine the Judge offered and made no comment when Travis said they must leave.

Trying her best to smile, Regan bid them farewell and thanked them as Travis helped her back onto the wagon seat. The tension of the day, the wedding—if it could be called such—had exhausted her, and as she slumped in the seat Travis pulled her close to him.

“It wasn't much of a wedding, was it?” he asked heavily. “Not something a girl can tell her grandchildren about.”

“No,” she said simply, not daring to say any more or she'd start crying. All she wanted now was to go to sleep, and perhaps tomorrow she could think happy thoughts about her baby and about being Travis's wife.

By the time the wagon stopped, she was almost asleep, barely waking when Travis lifted her down and carried her up some stairs.

“Are we home?” she murmured.

“Not yet.” His voice was serious, without its usual hint of laughter. “We're at an inn. In the morning we'll start home.”

She merely nodded and snuggled against him. At least this was her wedding night. If Travis didn't know how a wedding should be conducted, at least he knew how to make the night the best a woman could imagine.

Lying on the bed where he'd left her, she listened as he carried their trunks up the stairs. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad being married to Travis; at least now she didn't have to worry about being abandoned.

Smiling, she felt his warm lips on her cheek. “I'll be back in a little while,” he murmured, sending little shivers down her spine. “You rest, because you're going to need it.”

As the door closed behind him, she stretched, put her hands behind her head, and looked up at the ceiling, but she didn't really see it. Tonight was her wedding night. Last year one of the kitchen maids had gotten married, and the next day everyone teased her mercilessly, but the girl had been so radiant that nothing anyone said bothered her. Now Regan understood why.

Suddenly, she sat up. She may be expecting his baby and far from being a virgin, but tonight she certainly felt like one. With one adoring look directed toward the closed door, she thought how kind it was of Travis to give her this time alone to prepare herself. Hot water waited for her on the old dresser at the corner of the small room, and she guessed he must have sent someone ahead to prepare for them. He'd even left the keys to the trunks on the dresser.

Hurriedly, because she knew Travis would be an impatient bridegroom and wouldn't stay away very long, she opened her trunk and began to rummage through the beautiful clothes she and Sarah had sewed. Toward the bottom was a gown of gossamer silk with a bit of silver sheen to the surface. It was translucent, allowing just a hint of her hand beneath it to show through, revealing yet secretive. She'd been saving this lovely bit of moonlit silk for just such a time as this.

Quickly, she unbuttoned her linen dress, not dwelling on the fact that this traveling dress had been her wedding gown. At least she'd be able to wear something elegant for her wedding night. Naked, she began to wash, laughing all the while. Then she slipped into the gown, shivering in delight as the silk touched her skin. The feel of it was heavenly, soft, caressing, clinging to her curves in just the right places. Moving to the mirror, she was a bit startled to see the way her breasts impudently lifted the lovely fabric, the rosy crests barely visible yet somehow emphasized. Oh yes, she thought. Travis would love this gown.

Out of the trunk came the silver-backed hairbrush Travis had given her, and she pulled the pins from her hair, allowing it to cascade down her back, wispy curls about her face. She was glad she'd never cut her hair short as so many women had since the revolution in France. After only a few quick strokes of the brush, she hurried to the bed, knowing she'd taken long enough, feeling just as impatient as Travis must be.

Once in bed, she arranged herself in what she hoped was a seductive pose, half-reclining against the pillows, one arm extended, the other with fingertips grazing her shoulder. With what she hoped was a sophisticated look, she gazed languidly toward the door.

It was late and the inn was quiet, yet every time a board so much as creaked, she found herself smiling, imagining the look Travis would have when he came through the door. Each time she thought of him she arched her back a little more, thrusting her chest forward. She kept remembering how Farrell had said he dreaded the wedding night with her, that she'd probably cry and pout like a two-year-old. Tonight, although of course Farrell would never know about it, she'd prove him wrong. Tonight she'd be a temptress, a seductress, a woman who knew what she wanted—and got it. Travis would be on his knees, trembling like a bit of calves'-foot jelly, and she'd be his master.

Perhaps it was the awkward position of her back arched so far forward that first caused her pain; then she realized her arms ached and one side of her hip was asleep. Moving a bit, lowering her arm to her lap, she began to return from her dream world. She was a master at being able to escape from reality for long periods of time, and now she wondered how long she'd been in this position.

Glancing about the room, she saw there was no clock, and neither was there any moon outside the window—and the candle by the bed, which had been new, was inches shorter.

Where was Travis? she wondered, throwing back the covers and going to the window. Surely he couldn't believe she needed this much time to get ready for him. A bolt of lightning flashed and for an instant illuminated the empty courtyard below. Within minutes a soft rain began to fall, and Regan shivered as cold air came in through the poorly fitting window.

Getting back into the warmth of the bed, she looked about her, idly thinking that this room was very much like the one where Travis had held her prisoner in England. Then she'd been his slave, and now she was his wife. Of course, she had no ring, and the paper the Judge had signed was with Travis, but, she thought smiling, she had Travis's child and he'd certainly come back for that.

The thought that he might not come back made her frown. Why had she even let such an absurd idea cross her mind? Travis was an honorable man, and he'd married her.

Honorable, she murmured. Did honorable men kidnap women and take them to America against their will? He'd given her reasons for his forcing her to accompany him, but maybe all he'd really wanted was someone to warm his bed on the long voyage across the sea. And she'd certainly done that! They'd nearly set the bed on fire, and now she carried the product of that fire with her.

The rain started falling more heavily, lashing against the dark window, and with it Regan's despair began.

Travis had never wanted her. He'd said so himself a hundred times. Even once they were on board the ship, he'd still been trying to find out who she was so he could rid himself of her. He was the same as Farrell and her Uncle Jonathan—they'd never wanted her either.

The tears began to fall down her cheeks on a par with the turbulent rain outside. Why did he marry her? Had Travis somehow found out about her inheritance? He'd taken her to America, married her immediately, and now that he had that piece of paper and could claim her money he wanted nothing more to do with her. He'd abandoned her in a strange country with no money, no help, and maybe a baby to care for.

She began to cry furiously, fists beating into the pillow, sobs tearing through her. When her first passion was gone, the tears became slower, flowing out of her quietly as her anger turned to hopelessness as she asked herself why she was so unworthy of love.

The rain outside turned to a hard, steady downpour, and, after hours, her grief began to be lulled by the sound as she fell into a deep, deathlike sleep. When the first heavy steps sounded on the stairs she did not hear them, and it was only the pounding on the door that was finally able to wake her.

“O
PEN THIS DAMNED DOOR!” BELLOWED A VOICE THAT
could only belong to Travis. Obviously he was unconcerned about waking the other occupants of the inn.

Her head feeling as heavy as a piece of granite, Regan tried to sit up, staring through her swollen eyes at the door that threatened to break under Travis's pounding.

“Regan!” Another shout came that sent her flying to the door.

Turning the knob, she said dazedly, “It's locked.”

“The key's on the dresser,” Travis replied, his voice heavy with disgust.

The door was barely open before Travis burst into the room—but Regan could hardly see him, for he was buried behind the most flowers she'd ever seen in her life. As an amateur gardener, she recognized many of them—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, irises, violets, three colors of lilacs, poppies, laurel, and beautiful, perfect roses. There was no order to the flowers as they trailed behind Travis, hung down in front of him, some tied together in bundles, some loose and falling, a few covered in mud, others beaten by the rain. Even as he stood there, they fell about him like a colorful riot of lovely raindrops.

Going forward, scattering more flowers, walking on some, he tossed the whole mass on the bed and exposed himself as a man covered in mud—and his face showed his anger.

“Damned things!” he said, pulling a bunch of violets from his shirt collar and throwing them onto the bed. “I never thought I could hate flowers, but tonight I may change my mind.” As he removed his hat, water poured onto the floor. Disgustedly, he pulled three dwarf irises off his hat and tossed them with the others.

So far he had barely glanced at Regan, and his anger was so great that he didn't even notice her sheer gown or the way the early sunlight made her body glow beneath the gossamer silk.

Heavily, he sat down in a chair and started to remove his boots, but first he lifted himself and with a grimace removed a thorny rose from beneath him.

“All I planned was a simple trip north,” he said as he pulled a boot off, pouring water out of it. “I have a friend who has a glasshouse, and he only lives five miles north of here. And of course a bride should have flowers, so I thought I'd just get you some.”

Still, he didn't look up as he began removing his soaked, filthy coat. A flood of flowers fell from inside his jacket; crushed, falling apart, they cascaded to the floor.

Travis ignored them with a determined aloofness. “I was halfway there when it started to rain,” he continued his story. “But I kept on, and when I got there my friend and his wife got out of bed and personally cut the flowers for me. They cleaned out the garden and the glasshouse.”

His shirt, soaked to his skin, came off next, and more flowers drifted to the already considerable pile at his bare feet.

“It was on the way back that the trouble started. The damned horse threw a shoe, and I had to walk in that strip of mud Virginia calls a road. I couldn't stop and have a new shoe fitted and miss my own wedding night.”

Fascinated, Regan could only watch him, her heart beginning to heal with every word he spoke.

“Then lightning flashed, and the horse reared and knocked me in the mud. If that animal lives two more days, it won't be because I allow it,” he threatened. “I would have let it go, but the damned flowers were on the saddle, so I had to spend two hours in the storm looking for that animal, and when I found it the saddle was gone.”

Angrily, he stripped off his pants. “Another hour went by before I found the saddle and all these…these….” he said, pulling what was left of a peony from his pants and giving a crooked smile as he slowly crushed it before letting it drop. “The bags were broken, and there was no way to carry them, so I started stuffing them wherever I could.” His eyes locked with hers for the first time. “There I was, a grown man, standing in the middle of one of the worst storms of the year, filling my clothes with these thorny, itchy, smelly flowers. Do you know how much a fool I felt like, and what the hell are you crying about?” he said in the same breath and tone.

Picking up a slightly damaged and very wet rose from the bed, she held it to her nose. “A bride should have flowers,” she whispered. “You did this for me.”

Bewilderment and exasperation showed on Travis's wet face. “Why else would I go out on a night like this, on my own wedding night, for God's sake, unless it was for my bride?”

Regan couldn't answer, just kept her head down, tears beginning to flow.

After a moment's silent thought, Travis came to her, lifted her chin in his hand, and studied her face. “You've been crying a lot,” he said quietly. “You didn't think I was coming back, did you?”

Jerking away from him, she walked to the head of the bed. “No, of course not. It's just—”

A soft chuckle from Travis made her turn. He was naked, standing like some god of old in a wealth of fragrant flowers, and she began to smile too. He had returned to her, and he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to give her what she wanted.

Travis's eyes, looking at her in the sheer gown, turned hot with desire. “Don't I get a reward for all my work?” he whispered, opening his arms to her.

With one giant leap, Regan flew at him, her arms going about his neck, her legs around his waist.

Surprised for a moment, Travis caught her. “How could you think I'd leave you after all the trouble I've gone through to get you?” he murmured before fastening his lips to hers.

The feel of his bare skin, cool and damp between her legs, made her shiver with pleasure as she tightened her legs about his middle until she threatened to sever him in half. Only the thin bit of silk between them kept their skin apart as she rubbed against him, her breasts nearly crushed by the hard mass of his chest.

Her hands went to his hair, pulling on the wet thickness of it, her fingers disappearing into it as her lips made a hot trail across his mouth. He was here; he'd come back to her, and he was her husband, hers to do with as she wanted.

In glee, feeling powerful, she bit his earlobe much too hard.

Within an instant she found herself pulled from Travis and being flung through the air, landing in an explosion of flowers of hundreds of shades and hues and a swirl of delicate silk. Brushing four daffodils off her face, she smiled up at Travis as he stood over her, hands on hips, muscles bulging, manhood towering.

“Now that's the way a bride should look.”

“Stop talking and come here,” she laughed, holding her arms up to him.

But instead of going to her, he knelt and kissed her toes, one by one, his tongue teasing the soft pads. His hot mouth moved to the bottoms of her feet, and as he raked his teeth along the arch she jumped as a nerve inside her tightened, jolting her entire body.

Travis laughed, a deep rumbling sound that touched her foot, traveled up her leg, and reverberated in the center of her being.

“Travis,” she gasped, lifting herself and reaching for him. Flowers under her crackled and released their heady fragrance. But he ignored her as his lips moved upward to her knees, exploring, kissing, caressing.

Regan, ready for him, actually eager for him, felt she would go insane as he toyed with her senses. His mouth tortured one leg, and as if that weren't enough, his hand, so strong yet so sensitive, caressed the muscles of the other leg until she was weak with helplessness. Yet at the same time she felt like a tigress, wanting to claw and bite, wanting to tear at this man who threatened her sanity.

When he reached the center of her with his hands and lips, she nearly screamed, rolling her head in agony at what he was doing.

“Please, Travis, please,” she begged.

Within seconds he came to her, his mouth hard on hers, but no harder than hers as she attempted to devour all of him. When he entered her, she arched high, completely off the bed, supporting him, needing him, using her hips to drive him onward.

His passion was as great as hers and his need as violent. After only a few powerful, deep, filling thrusts, his body jerked, and he clutched her to him in a bone-crushing hug as spasms racked both their bodies.

It was several moments before Regan realized she couldn't breathe, that Travis seemed to be trying to pull her inside him, and that she wanted him to.

As he relaxed his grip but still held her, his face buried in her neck, she opened her eyes and saw a long line of crushed flower petals clinging to his sweaty skin. Turning her head, breathing deeply of the lovely fragrance, she began to laugh as she put out her hand, grabbed some flowers, and playfully tossed them into the air.

One eyebrow lifted, Travis moved to look at her. “And what is so amusing?” he asked.

“Flowers for the bride!” she laughed gaily. “Oh Travis, I meant a bouquet, not a whole garden.”

Leaning across her, he grabbed a handful, catching the flowers upside down and sideways, and he held out the funny bouquet. “I'm sure you could find what you wanted in this.”

She moved out from under him, rolling in the flowers, tossing clumps into the air, and then began pelting him with them. “She wants flowers,” Regan laughed in a mock deep voice. “I'll give her flowers. Oh Travis, everything you do is so…so big!” she laughed, trying for the right word. “Everything is so oversized, blown out of proportion, overpowering, domineering.” Sitting up, watching him, looking at that magnificent body reclining lazily on a bed of flowers, her heart seemed to turn somersaults.

“Perhaps,” she said in a cat-soft voice, “not all of you is overpowering all the time.”

After a sharp intake of breath, Travis grabbed her by a handful of silk, but a short, sharp scream from Regan stopped him.

“Don't you tear one more piece of my clothing,” she warned, but flung the silk gown off before he could disobey her.

“Orders and taunts,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he lifted himself up onto all fours and began to stalk her like some great beast of prey.

With a squeal of delight, Regan backed away from him, bombarding him with flowers as he slowly came toward her. When she was backed against the wall, she threw her hands up in surrender. “Oh, kind sir,” she said in mock fear. “Do what you will with me, but do not take my virtue.”

Her skin alive, anticipating Travis's delicious pounce, she was startled when he uttered a heartfelt “Damn!”

Turning her head, she saw that he'd sat up, holding his knee. “How can you crawl around on these damned things without injury? Look at that! Have you ever seen a thorn that big?”

Regan burst into laughter so hard her stomach threatened to split. Her knees drawn up, she rolled in laughter.

Pulling the thorn from his knee and angrily tossing it onto the floor, he gave her a nasty glare. “I am glad I afford you some amusement.”

“Oh Travis,” she cried. “You are so, so romantic.”

He stiffened at her sarcasm, his mouth turning into a straight line. “Why the hell did I get you all these goddamn flowers if I wasn't the very soul of romance?” he demanded seriously.

This statement, and especially the way he said it, sent Regan into new spasms of laughter, and it took some minutes before she became aware that she was hurting his feelings. He really had tried, she admitted to herself. It wasn't his fault if he didn't understand that a bunch of violets was often more romantic than enough flowers to fill a wagon. She'd said she wanted flowers, and he had gotten them for her. And neither was it his fault that a thorn in his knee forced him to interrupt a lovely little romantic game.

As he started to leave the bed, she put her hand on his shoulder and swallowed her laughter. “Travis, the flowers are lovely. I really do like them.” When he didn't respond and she saw the muscles standing rigid on his neck, she really was sorry that she'd laughed. He'd done what he did to please her, and all she did was laugh.

“I'll wager I can make you stop being angry with me,” she whispered, nuzzling his ear, her teeth running along the cartilage edge, her tongue touching the lobe. “Maybe if I kiss your sore knee, it will stop hurting,” she murmured, running her lips down his arm.

“It might,” Travis said, his voice especially deep. “I'd sure like to try it.”

Regan, aware of how he'd tried to please her, wanted to please him. Pushing him gently, she found he was putty in her hands, and the look of wonder and pleasure on his face was intriguing. The strength of him surrendering to her was a powerful feeling.

Beginning at his knee, her lips traveled upward, her hands trailing behind, massaging his leg, glorying in the great muscle there. When she reached the center of him, Travis groaned, whispering her name. With one fluid motion he pulled her up in the bed, his eyes black and hot as he roughly threw her down beside him and mounted her in moments. He was not his usual, calm self, but a man driven beyond endurance with his blinding lust.

His violent need of her was exciting, especially because she knew she'd driven him to it. Lifting her body under him as if she were a rag doll, he thrust hard and long, pulling her, pushing her—owning her.

When at last the fury died in one massive flash, Regan was limp, weak from the raw tempest of their wild, savage lovemaking. Exhausted, they fell asleep in each other's arms.