Midnight Star (32 page)

“Such a fool you are, Chauncey,” he said softly, tweaking her nose. “You know very well that I gave up Marie before we were married.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but you were so furious with me and you left that night, remember?”

“Yes, but I didn’t go to Marie. Don’t ever forget, Chauncey, ever: I love you to distraction. All right?”

“I don’t deserve you,” she said, and poked him in the ribs when he heartily agreed with her.

The night was cool and clear. Sated, Chauncey leaned back against Delaney’s knees, staring into the glowing embers in the fireplace. The pheasant had been delicious. Her shoulder scarcely bothered her.

“I don’t ever want to leave here,” she said, leaning her head back so that she could see his face upside down.

“That’s because I’m doing all the work, madam.
I would expect you to enjoy being waited on hand and foot. Well, hand and something.”

She flushed just a bit.

He shifted her around and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I want you to get into your comfortable bed. I, dear one, am going down to the river to bathe.”

“All right,” she said, her pulse quickening. He helped her ease down into the bedroll and rose.

“I shan’t be long. Can I expect you to be waiting for me when I return?”

She yawned dramatically. “I’m awfully tired, sir.”

When Delaney returned to the shack some thirty minutes later, he was amused to see that she was indeed sleeping, her face glowing in the soft firelight, her breath even. He stripped off his clothes and started to slide under the blankets with her, but realized he was too wide-awake. He had kept all his doubts and concerns from her, and in the stillness of the dilapidated shack, they flooded into his mind.

Chauncey awoke slowly, not moving. She blinked several times, furious with herself that she’d fallen asleep. She turned her head on the valise—the makeshift pillow—and sucked in her breath. Delaney stood by the fireplace staring as if mesmerized by the jumping flames. He was naked.

Delaney’s body glowed golden in the soft firelight. He was leaning slightly forward, his arm braced against the rough-hewn stone ledge that served as a mantel. His head was bent and she could see the damp tendrils of hair at his neck curling slightly as his hair dried from his bath. He looked so locked into his thoughts that she kept herself silent, content for the moment to drink in the beauty of him.

Her eyes followed the profile of his body, the smooth slope of his back, the taut buttocks, the long, powerful legs. He turned slightly, and she stared at the muscled chest, the firm, flat belly, and the nest of hair at his groin. She wanted more than anything to touch him, to feel the crisp hair of his thighs, to rub her cheek against his belly.

“You are so damned beautiful,” she said, scarcely aware that she’d spoken aloud.

He turned abruptly, saw that she was staring at him fully, and grinned. “I am pleased that you like the view.”

He made no move to cover himself.

“It is not just your body that is beautiful,” she continued after a moment, her eyes drawn downward as his manhood began to respond to her gaze. “You are such a complex man.”

He arched a brow at her. “I assure you, my dear, that there isn’t a complex thought in my head at the moment.”

“I wish that you had some flaws!” she blurted out.

He laughed at that, and she watched the play of muscles in his chest.

“Well, it’s true,” she said, indignant. “I am nothing but one big flaw, and you . . . well, you are so bloody perfect!”

“Oh, Chauncey, I am anything but a paragon. I have been known to sin, you know, and most royally.”

“I feel that I’ve done nothing but sin, and make a mess of everything.”

“You’re through making messes, love, I promise you.”

“Now you make me sound like a puppy!”

“Ah, I knew I could get you out of that serious vein and make you smile. Life is bloody strange.” He looked bemused for a moment, then shook off his abstraction. He straightened, a look in his eyes that made her pulse begin to race. His eyes looked as golden as his body. She could feel their intensity, see the shades of feeling.

“I don’t want to go back!” she said, running her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “Ever.”

He strode over to her and eased down to his knees. “When we return home, I promise you that what we have learned about each other these past days we won’t forget.” He held out his hands to her.

She came up to her knees before him. “I love you, Del.”

“I know,” he said, his voice lightly teasing, “and my body believes you as well.”

He drew her gently against him and she felt his swollen manhood against her belly. His hands were lightly stroking down her back, curving around her hips, and raising her slightly.

She clasped her arms around his back and raised her head. He kissed her gently on her lips, his tongue probing until with a contented sigh she allowed him entrance.

He felt her soft breasts crushed against his chest, her nipples taut. His kiss deepened and he brought his hands up to clasp her face between his hands. When he finally released her mouth, she was gasping for breath, her breasts heaving. She nipped at his shoulder, easing down to kiss his nipples, her hand roving through the hair on his chest. She wanted him, all of him. She pictured him loving her body intimately, his mouth covering her until she wanted to scream with pleasure. Could he be so different from her? She eased down lower, giving him light, nipping kisses on his belly. She felt his muscles tighten, felt his entire body stiffen, and she smiled in anticipation. When her lips lightly touched his manhood, he jerked wildly, sucking in his breath.

“Chauncey . . .” he began, his voice raspy.

He slid his fingers into her hair, drawing her
head forward. The soft moistness of her mouth closed so gently around him. She could have no notion of what she was doing to him, he thought, utterly dazed by her marvelous initiative. He closed his eyes, flinging back his head, and let her swamp his body with incredible sensations. But it had been too long, and he could feel himself trembling toward release.

Slowly he pushed her away.

She raised her face and smiled at him. “I love the way you taste,” she said, her voice awed and strangely excited. “And the way you feel and . . .” She lowered her head again, but he grasped her shoulders, bringing her upright.

“No! No more, love. I can’t hold back.”

“Oh,” she said, considering his words. “But you never make me hold back.”

“That,” he said, a wry smile on his lips, “is not quite the same thing. Not the same thing at all.”

She snuggled up against him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders. “Please,” she said softly.

But he wouldn’t be rushed, as much as he wanted to bury himself deep within her. He splayed his fingers over her buttocks, curving until he was probing at her softness. She was ready for him, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

“Oh God,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wrap your arms around my neck,” he said, easing down on his haunches. He lifted her hips and gently eased himself into her.

She cried out in surprise and pleasure.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Oh no,” she cried, kissing him wildly.

He came deeper inside her, his eyes closed with the intense pleasure of her. This closeness, he thought passionately, was what he had always envisioned with a woman, the one special woman he’d almost despaired of ever finding. Her warmth and giving were filling him as he was filling her with himself.

“Lean back against my hands,” he told her softly. She obeyed him instantly. “That’s right, love. Relax and drop your arms. I don’t want to hurt your shoulder.”

She flung her head back, arching her back against the support of his hands, her breasts thrust forward. Slowly he eased her onto her back, never leaving her, and supported himself above her on his elbows. Her hips rose to meet his gentle thrusts, and he moaned softly deep in his throat at her response to him. He slipped his hand between them and began to caress her warm swollen flesh. Her eyes flew open, and he saw her desire for him. He began to tremble, thrusting more urgently, more deeply, his breath raspy in the still room. He felt her legs close about his flanks, drawing him deeper, and he tried to slow himself. But she wouldn’t allow it.

She gasped his name, feeling his fingers burn white hot into the depths of her, felt him so deep inside her that he was one with her.

She screamed his name, her body tensing, her eyes closing as the convulsing, nearly painful sensations ripped through her body.

He thrust deep, making himself a part of her, spewing his seed into her, thinking at that moment that he had come home.

Chauncey quivered slightly as the gentle spasms
continued to fill her. The feel of him, oh God, she thought, utterly dazed, the feel of him surrounding her, filling her, knowing her . . .

“What’s this? Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”

His soft voice rumbled close by her ear, and she clutched her arms around his back, burying her face in his shoulder. She breathed in the scent of him, pressing her lips against him, and tasted the sheen of perspiration that covered his flesh.

“Chauncey . . .”

“I’m fine, truly fine. I just can’t seem to get enough of you.”

He arched back and looked down into her face. “You look quite proud of yourself,” he observed.

She wriggled her hips upward, drawing him inward. “I shan’t let you leave me.”

“You know, I begin to believe that having a wife is not a bad thing at all. Particularly a wife who makes me wild every night.”

“The wife feels the same away,” she said. “Del, no!”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He eased off her onto his side. “Just give me some time to regroup my troops.”

“Yes, general, sir.” She raised her hand and lightly stroked her fingertips over his bearded jaw. “Del, if Chatca had”—she paused a moment, the word hovering in her mind—“if he had raped me, what would you have done? Would you have hated me?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tease her and tell her that she was young and silly, but he didn’t. She was perfectly serious, and he
responded in kind. “I don’t understand why a woman could possibly feel guilty if she is the victim.”

He felt a slight shudder go through her. “I think I would feel so . . . dirty, so unworthy.”

“Do you know, I have heard some men blame women for another man’s violence. I have even heard them joke about how they won’t enter a field where other men have plowed. In fact, Sam Brannan wondered in all upright honesty how I could have Lin in my house when she’d been a common whore to more men than he could count. As if it had been her decision, her choice! It took months for the haunted look to leave Lin’s eyes, to see her stand firm, not flinch when I came close to her. Men are sometimes bastards.”

“You wouldn’t have minded, then?”

“Of course. I would feel guilty myself that I allowed you so little protection that you could be violated. I would have killed the man who’d harmed you.”

She sighed deeply, nestling her face against his chest. “But there’s something not right here,” she said suddenly, pulling back to look at him. “You’re right, I can see that now. Had he raped me, it wouldn’t have been my fault. What I don’t understand is why men can think that way. After all, if it were not for them, there would be no women who were whores in the first place. Or mistresses,” she added, her eyes darkening.

He grinned down at her, lightly flicking the tip of her nose with his finger. “Your logic is terrifying,” he said.

“And what’s more,” she continued, frowning at him, “what is all this about men not wanting
to . . .
plow
a field where other men have been. What about women? I don’t want a man who’s been plowing in other fields.”

“Destroyed by my own metaphor.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No, it isn’t, and it’s tough to explain why. Had you not come to me a virgin, I would have been driven wild to know what other man had known you. I would have thought less of you, as unfair as that may sound.”

“But I didn’t think less of you, and I know you weren’t a virgin! You knew too much about things.”

“I doubt we would have accomplished much on our wedding night had I been as ignorant as you. It all has to do with you as a lady, Chauncey, that paragon of womanhood whose thoughts and actions must be inviolate. Such a seamy thing as her actually wanting sex is unthinkable. Once she is married, then magically she should be willing to give herself to her husband. She must be pure and utterly innocent, else she’s not truly a lady. Does that make sense?”

“I suppose men have ensured that it makes sense. Yet I consider you a gentleman.”

“Not the same thing, love. There is a point to it all, you know. You, sweetheart, will carry my children. And as a man whose property and money will go to his children, I want to be certain that they are mine, and not another’s.”

“Then if I had been raped and become pregnant, you would have hated me because you couldn’t be certain it was your child I was carrying.”

He stared at her a moment, examining himself,
for he’d never considered such a thing. “I would be a true bastard if that were true,” he said finally, “and I don’t believe I am. No, I wouldn’t hate you, nor would I hate the child, for, you see, the child would be half you. Now, have I given a good enough account of myself?”

“It is all rather difficult, isn’t it?” She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to his lips. “I suppose I do understand, yet it seems that women can do naught but slip off the path of righteousness.” She smiled crookedly.

“Just so long as when you slip, it is into my arms.”

“Ah, and there’s another thing, Del.”

He groaned. “I make love to you, and in the aftermath I must indulge in philosophical discussions.”

She slightly tugged at a tuft of hair on his chest. “No, I am just a simple woman who needs a man to explain things to her. For instance, do you know that at twenty-one I was considered practically a spinster in England? Twenty-one years old! And here you are, a man and twenty-eight. You were a bachelor and that was marvelous! Goodness, even if you were in your thirties, you still could have wed me and no one would have thought it inappropriate that so many years separated us.”

“I know what’s coming next,” he said on a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Chauncey, at twenty you were so much more intelligent, mature, winsome, and marvelous than I was at your age. It takes a man time and years to gain enough experience to make him acceptable. And you know something? I was disturbed that you were so old.
All of twenty-one. A man wants an obedient, malleable wife. I should have found you when you were eighteen.”

“You sound like you’re jesting, but I know you’re serious.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, leaning down to kiss her pursed lips. “I am rarely serious. It’s bad for the digestion. Now, watching your eyes glow with pleasure is quite good for the digestion. Hush now, I want to quiet down the rustic dinner in my belly.”

His hand slid down to cup her breast, kneading it gently.

“What about my digestion?” she whispered into his mouth.