One Wore Blue (21 page)

She looked at his face. She wondered how he had come upon her so silently, or if she had simply been so lost in her reflections that her senses had betrayed her.

He stood some distance from her, having dismounted from his horse, the fine huge roan, Pegasus. He had bred Pegasus at Cameron Hall, and he had brought him into the cavalry with him. Pegasus was impeccably trained, but no horse standing nearly seventeen hands high could tiptoe through brush.

And neither could Jesse—but there he was, indisputably, almost upon her. Tall, striking, standing still in the tall grass, the breeze lifting his hair and pulling upon the cotton of his white open-necked shirt. He was dressed as a civilian in buff-colored breeches and high black boots, dressed as the master of Cameron Hall. His hair seemed exceptionally dark, and his eyes, even at this distance, seemed exceptionally blue. He held Pegasus’s reins and stood with his feet planted firm, his legs apart upon the incline of the mound, as a slow smile curved his lip.

“So you’ve come home,” he said softly.

“And so have you.”

His lashes fell over his eyes and his smile was broad when
he raised his gaze to her once again. “I’m not supposed to be here?”

“I—I did think that you were in Washington.”

“Please, don’t let the rudeness of my presence destroy your visit. Is my sister expecting you?”

She shook her head. “No one is expecting me.”

She had changed—and then again, she hadn’t, Jesse thought. She appeared more sophisticated than ever. Surely her riding habit was the latest in French fashion. The cut of the green velvet creation was a very tailored one, but the sharp-angled brim of her green-feathered bonnet lent both femininity and elegance to the outfit. Beneath the closely fitted jacket of the ensemble she wore a laced shirt that added to the very feminine grace of the habit, despite its almost masculine cut.

She wore it well. Seated atop the dapple-gray mare, she was the very height of sophistication and beauty. In fact, she was stunning. Her eyes defied the emerald splendor of the dew-kissed grasses. Her hair, entwined in rich braids and pinned at her nape, took up the colors of the sun and shone with a fiery splendor. And she seemed older, and perhaps wiser, for there was a curious sadness about her gaze.

Watching her, Jesse felt the pain that he thought he had buried come to life again. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, and a heat like the radiating play of the sun upon naked flesh in summer came upon him. It was bittersweet to see her, to have her here before him, to remember what it had been to touch her.

Surely there was no difference among women, he told himself. One was surely the same as the other in the darkness.

But it wasn’t true at all. No woman felt the same as Kiernan did, even in the dark. No woman carried the same sweet scent, no one whispered or sighed the same.

With dark fury, he suddenly wished with all his heart that she had married Anthony. He might have purged her from his dreams and his life if only she had done so.

“What are you doing here, Kiernan?” he said suddenly, fiercely.

She stiffened upon her mount. “It’s wonderful to see you too, Jesse,” she said coolly.

“You’re trespassing.”

“My Lord, your manners haven’t improved—” she began, but he dropped the roan’s reins and strode toward her with long steps. She started to back her mare away, but his hands were already upon the mare’s bridle, holding her steady. Before she knew it, he was reaching up to her.

“Jesse, what do you think you’re—”

She fell silent, for she knew what he was doing. He was lifting her down and into his arms. All the winter’s cold was instantly dispelled as he wrapped her tightly into his embrace. He kissed her hard and savagely, suffusing her body with all the warmth of his own, and with the memory of all the splendor.

His hand gently moved over her chin, exploring bone structure and texture. But his eyes were savage as his thumb caressed the softness of her cheek, and his body was rock hard as it pressed against hers. She was caught between the man and the horse, and she was vulnerable to the ferocity of his power.

“My God, I have missed you!” he whispered. “You can’t imagine what it’s been like. In every drawing room where I have been a guest I’ve listened to the sound of rustling silk, and I’ve prayed that I could turn and see you there. And every damned night I’ve lain awake and thought of you, and even when I’ve slept, my dreams have been plagued by you. Every time I touched a woman’s hair, it seemed coarse in my hands because it was not yours, it wasn’t the color of fire, and it did not have the sheen of satin and the feel of velvet and silk. Words whispered have never been the same, you witch! Damn you. Damn you a thousand times over!”

She stared into his eyes, and she felt the heat and the hatred within them.

And she felt so much more. She felt the need in his touch. She felt the hunger and tension in the body pressed so closely to hers. And when he ruthlessly lowered his mouth to hers once again, she parted her lips by instinct and responded
with a sweet memory that swept away the time that lay between them.

She was back in his arms again. Nothing else mattered.

She broke away from him, aware of the fires that had been ignited between them. Desire that lay dormant when he was not near rose to the surface of her being. It felt as if her heart beat for him, as if her every breath was for him, as if her limbs flamed for him, as if she were split apart by the fires that burned and radiated from deep within her. She needed desperately to be with him.

She moistened her lips and met his hot gaze. She struggled for breath, then for the sound to make a whisper. “Where can we go?”

He grinned broadly, and she realized that he had voiced that question a year before.

And that she had taken him to the haven.

“I’ll show you,” he replied softly.

They left the horses in the field atop the mount as he caught her hand and brought her running swiftly down the slope. It seemed in only seconds that they were racing by the cemetery and plunging into the dense foliage that lined the river to the left of the docks. They scurried through a trail of brush and trees until they came to a copse wherein stood an elegant white gazebo, a summer cottage. Like the manor, it was built with a breezeway. Octagonal in shape, its etched-glass doors would welcome the breezes from the river if opened, and yet warm the place against the damp chills of winter. She should have known the place. She had come there often enough as a child.

Now Jesse opened the double doors, which had been closed against the December cold. He led her inside, closed the door again, and leaned against it. For a long time he stood staring at her, and she was suddenly afraid of why she had come, and at the same time she felt a growing pleasure and longing sweep through her. He looked so damned good. The white of his shirt emphasized the bronze of his face and throat. The simple cotton enhanced the structure of his shoulders and torso and arms. His face seemed more lined, she thought, etched more deeply around his eyes. But he
seemed more handsome to her than ever, grave, taunting, demanding. They were both growing older, and Jesse was growing even more sensual.

And more determined, she thought briefly.

She would soon be in his arms. And they would stand together, now that he had come home.

“Jesse—”

He swore something unintelligible that held a note of anguish, then strode toward her once again. “No, dammit, I do not want to talk!” He swept the elegant little hat from her head, and before she could stop him, his fingers were in her hair, freeing it from the pins. He spread it out to frame her face, and his lips and mouth touched hers again with such fervor that decency seemed lost, and the fierce flames of desire were awakened. Was it right to love so deeply and so desperately? Kiernan didn’t know—she only knew that she lost her soul within his arms, that she sought to touch his tongue with her own, that she was surrendering to the simple ecstasy of his lips upon hers, caressing, seeking, touching again and again.

There was no chaise, no bed, no lounge within the gazebo. But a cloth lay over a wrought-iron table. Jesse swept it up and laid it out upon the floor, then returned for her.

Not even the wildest fires of raw desire could strip away the cold within the summer house. And so he did not seek to divest her of her clothing.

He swept her up and carried her to the cloth, and he bore her down upon it as her eyes met his with the emerald blaze of her longing, and her fingers curled into the ebony hair at his nape. When she was upon the floor, she felt the wetness of his kiss again, warmly raging, touching her lips, drawing away, his tongue seeking, his teeth catching her lower lip lightly, and then again, his tongue meeting hers just outside their parted mouths, and their lips closing finally around the exotic hunger of the kiss.

Velvet still encased and enclosed her, bringing her warmth, a warmth that melted into the growing heat of her body as she thirsted for his touch. His touch came so sweetly. Her velvet jacket was loosened, her breasts spilled
free in a froth of lace and silk undergarments. Her skirt was loosed, the ribbon tie of her pantalets was freed. Beneath the textures of the fabrics, his hands roamed freely. His palm began a sultry movement beneath the velvet of her skirt to caress the naked flesh of her hip, of her buttock, of her thigh. Warm velvet brushed against her as his touch traveled on. A heightening expectation, sweet and sensual, then raw and erotic, snaked through her, for with his touch, his kiss never ceased. Always it was there against a part of her. When his lips left hers, it was only for his mouth to form and cover seductively the rouge pinnacle of her breast. His tongue teased the tautening peak, then his lips formed again to suckle upon it deeply, sending startling waves of moist sweet heat rippling through her body to soak her with shattering desire that centered bluntly at the point between her thighs.

With his touch he found that point. With bold, excruciating precision, he stroked her where she most longed to be stroked, centered in upon all the shocking heat and sweet nectar and stroked. Stroked until gasps escaped her throat and she undulated to the rhythm of his hand. The velvet of her skirt bunched high atop of her hip, then she felt the rock-hard point of his erection burn erotically against her naked belly. She reached down to touch him. Her finger closed around his surging hardness and heat and vital life, and she almost pulled away, startled by the searing power and that very masculine life and power and pulse. His fingers closed around hers, holding her there. His kiss caught her lips again, and as his lips played wickedly with hers, she became fascinated with him and explored that living steel, trembling as she stroked and caressed, discovered the dark nest of hair at his groin, the soft sacs within it, and again, the driving rod of his sex. His hoarse cries and whispers drove her on until he was suddenly atop her, and the cry within her own body was answered by the hard and thundering thrust of his shaft deep, deep inside her, seeming to touch to her womb and to her heart.

Bringing with it splendor.

And so if winter winds blew around the summer cottage,
the cold inside was dispelled. Her every dream from faraway England was answered, her nights of loneliness, her time of waiting, the endless days when desire had lain dormant because the man to fuel the fires of that desire had been denied her—by her own choice, perhaps.

But time was swept away now, and the world was eclipsed. She had barely seen his face again, she had heard so very few of his words. But here she was again, swept into the rhythms of his passions, caught up in the desperate and heady desire of the excitement that sparked between them. Oh, where was discipline, where was conscience, where was honor, and dear Lord, what had happened to restraint?

In his arms, she did not know, nor could she care. The sweet winter’s scent of the river came in along with the breeze, mingled with the subtle scent that belonged only to her lover. Movement went on constantly, exquisitely, the twist and spiral of his body, the taunt when he was away, the gratification when he came again, growing wet and sleek and surging harder and faster with each thrust. She realized suddenly that whimpering sounds, soft eager cries, were coming from her, and that she surged in a likewise frenzy to have more of him, to join with him, to meld their bodies completely. And then suddenly, with one stroke, the wonder burst upon her. The delicious crest was met, and she went stiff, feeling heady, searing pleasure burst forth over all of her body. She shuddered as it swamped her again and again. She drifted as Jesse moved again, and then once more, then fell atop her as the sweetness from him pervaded all of her.

He fell to her side and pulled her against him. For a moment he was still, but then he held a tendril of her hair and brought it against his face, breathing deeply.

“Oh, Jesse,” she whispered.

“I wonder,” he murmured, “how I lived without you.”

She twisted into his arms, delighted just to be held against him, to luxuriate in the warmth and the tenderness that he offered. “Oh, Jesse, is it always like this?” she asked.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead. “No. It is never like this.”

“What are we going to do?” she demanded.

To her dismay, he gently eased himself free from her and stood. He absently buttoned his shirt, stuffed the ends into his breeches, and buttoned up his pants. Kiernan sat up, and with far greater difficulty, she rearranged her own clothing.

He strode to where the windows looked toward the house. Through the foliage the back porch with its regal and gracious columns could barely be seen. But as he looked more closely, his eyes grazed over the tops of some of the beautiful monuments within the family graveyard.

“I love this place,” he said suddenly, passionately. “My God, I love this place.”

I love you, Jesse
. She almost said the words, except that she had said them before. She knew that he loved her too. And so she spoke as he did, and her words, too, were true.

“I love it, too, Jesse,” she said softly.