Some Enchanted Evening (19 page)

Putting his lips close to her ear, he whispered, "You're mine. To do with as I wish."

"No." But while her lips formed the word, she had no breath to speak it, and still his thigh relentlessly moved between her legs.

"Tonight you're mine. Give yourself to me." And he bit her earlobe hard enough to bring her arching toward him.

Hard enough that shock drove her over the edge into the dark abyss of climax. Her body spasmed against his, helpless against the wave after wave of sensation so strong she couldn't speak, she couldn't breathe, she could only feel.

And the feeling was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. She moved, moaned,
was
, without conscious thought.

He lifted her before she had finished and lay her on the rug at their feet. The floor was hard against her back. His hands were rough as they caught her skirt and lifted it to her waist, but his expression was intent, triumphant, almost . . . worshipful.

She should be embarrassed to have her legs bared, to suffer the wash of air over her private parts, but somehow this man, with his experienced fingers and inciting lips, transmitted his sense of triumph, and she opened her arms to him.

He dropped to his knees between her legs, stripped his pants down and lay on top of her. The shock of his bare skin against hers blocked the breath in her lungs. He radiated heat, branding her flesh. Bracing his elbows on either side of her head, he dipped down to taste her lips, then delved deep with his tongue. The slow, steady motion of his probing, the gentle caress of his fingers on her chin, made her tremble in eagerness . . . and trepidation. His scent filled her nostrils, and the overwhelming intimacy of mouth and body broke through all the barriers she'd erected to protect her heart.

Sliding her hands up into his hair, she clutched it and held him, taking the thrusts of his tongue and returning them in bashful increments. He groaned as if her enthusiasm gave him pain, and the vibration of his lips against hers carried her to a higher level of excitement. In a rush of daring she rubbed her leg along his hip, and as if that deliberate contact broke his precarious hold on restraint, he reared back. She caught a brief glimpse of eyes heated to the temperature of blue coals.

Then he thrust his hips against her. His manhood probed for entrance. She stiffened in shocks but nothing could stop him now. He found her feminine opening, pressed hard . . . and for the first time she felt the presence of a man pushing within her.

He hurt her. He burned her with his passion. His hands rested beside her head. His elbows were locked, supporting his chest. He dominated her with his position and his power.

Tears ran from her eyes, but she didn't stop him. How could she, when his arched neck, flared nostrils, and agonized expression told her only too clearly of his own hurt? Inch by inch he fought his way inside, breaking down her maidenhead, taking her, claiming her. And while he did, she absorbed his agony, soothing him, exchanging his pain for hers.

Then he was all the way inside, pausing, adjusting . . . waiting for something. For what?

Her gaze flew to meet his.

His hips pressed hers to the floor. Intently he observed her, his eyes wide and wild. Sweat beaded his forehead. He strained to hold himself still.

She could see it. He was a man on the brink of folly — and she refused to descend into folly alone. She wrapped her arms around his back, wrapped her legs around his hips, sliding into a position that accepted him — his domination and his manhood — more fully.

And as if her acquiescence destroyed the last remnants of his sanity, he descended on top of her. Drawing back his hips, he plunged inside. Over and over he took her, blind and thoughtless with exhilaration.

Yet she found herself rising to meet him, matching passion for passion. She had no idea where anguish left off and pleasure began. It didn't even matter. All that mattered was this primal mating, this meeting of their two bodies, the way they merged to become one. The act was imprudent and unbidden and glorious beyond measure. Never in her life had she done something for the pure joy of the act, but now, exuberantly and without thought, she mated with him.

As his body moved on her, within her, he drew her with him down the path to breathless release. Her blood roared in her ears, her heart labored in her chest. She whimpered and clutched at him, her palms damp with desire. Deep in her womb, her muscles seized at his manhood, trying to hold him inside.

Yet always he slipped away. The motion and the struggle between them grew more ferocious. She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life before, and when he slid his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her to take his concentrated thrusts, he propelled her into fulfillment.

Furious, demanding, aggressive fulfillment.

The reckless violence of orgasm caught her, lifted her in ferocious spasms to a place where pleasure banished thought. Obeying some deep, ancient instinct, she writhed beneath him, a creature at one with him — with his rage, with his anguish, with his glory.

His pace increased, drew her further into the dark splendor of gratification. He groaned aloud, a deep animal sound that came from the depths of his tormented soul, and as if that were the sign of his breaking, he arched in the throes of irresistible, unstoppable bliss. He braced himself, every muscle taut, his body hammering against hers, and his abandon Pulled her under again.

She went without complaint, too new to realize that what he did to her was almost impossible — to carry a virgin to the heights not once, but twice. The force of pleasure made her gasp for air. Her body was no longer her own, but a thing for Hepburn to have and use . . . and cherish. For one moment, when her pleasure was at its pinnacle, she thought she was dying.

But no. As his motion ceased, as he sank down atop her, she became aware that she was very much alive. Every inch of her skin blushed. Her heart sang. Her womb quivered with the last fading shocks of satisfaction. Beneath her the floor was hard, the rug was rough, the strands of her hair caught in its coarse weave. Her eyes, lids heavy, opened to gaze on him, and never had she seen anything as beautiful as his sweat-dampened face.

In utter silence they stared at each other. He had fulfilled all the promises he'd made with his crystal eyes, his confident walk, his steady grip. He'd given her joy beyond anything she had ever dared imagine.

As if disoriented, he shook his head. His voice rasped as if the question had been dragged from a cavern deep within him. "Why did you let me . . . take you?"

She should box his ears for his insolent assumption of authority over her, but somehow, with the weight of him on her and that bewilderment on his face, she hadn't the spirit. Gently she told him, "You didn't take me." The place between her legs ached, but she had to tell him the truth. "I gave myself to you."

Slowly he withdrew from her body, leaving her lonely. Already lonely.

"Why?" he asked.

The answer. It was so simple. How could he not know? "Because you needed me."

Chapter Seventeen

Be careful what ye wish fer. Ye might get it
.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

Because you needed me.

What the hell did that mean?

As ferocious as a wounded tiger, Robert limped away from his cottage and toward the manor. Morning had passed; he had awoken to the noonday sun, to the scent of Clarice's perfume on his body, and the stupefied realization that he'd slept deeply for the first time since his return from the war.

Never mind that he'd found in Clarice the kind of joy he'd thought had disappeared from his life forever. Never mind that he'd taken her maidenhead . . .

Bloody damned hell. She'd been a virgin.

At the thought that haunted him, he pressed his palms to his forehead and stumbled a little from the weakness in his leg. He had a huge bruise on his hip from one of yesterday's blows, although he didn't remember one. His arm ached where Princess Clarice had placed the stitches. His eye and jaw were swollen and — he flexed his fingers — his knuckles were stiff beneath the scabs. Nothing worth being concerned about. In the past he'd had much worse.

No, it wasn't his war trophies that bothered him. It was the truth he came back to again and again. Clarice had been a virgin. He wasn't worried that she was really a princess, or that she'd destroyed her chance at a dynastic marriage. Those tales were simple bumblebroth on her part.

But she was an unmarried woman, and he'd ruined her. When he'd planned her seduction, he'd believed her to be experienced. She had misled him with her air of confidence and her worldly travels. He'd been wrong, and he had ruined her.

Worse, no matter how he lectured himself, he couldn't feel sorrow. He liked knowing he was her first. He wanted to be her last. But he had ruined her, and she . . . she had said . . .

Because you needed me.

He didn't need her. He didn't need anyone.

Clarice was convenient. A woman in the right place at the right time. He needed to make that clear to her.

But the gentlemen would be arriving soon, smeared with dirt from their hunting, needing baths and wanting food. When could he find the time or the opportunity to speak to Clarice alone?

He entered the house through the side door and looked around in irritation.

And where was everyone? Why hadn't any of the men turned up yet? Were the ladies primping in their rooms?

For the first time since he'd come home, he wanted company. He wanted to speak with people, he wanted to hear voices . . . because he didn't want to think about Clarice's words.

You needed me.

Blast her.

He wanted to speak to Clarice and tell her —

No
. He
needed
to see Clarice. Not in the way she meant he needed her, but because Colonel Ogley was on his way. If Hepburn's information was correct, and it was, Ogley would be here before tea.

Hepburn took a long, slow breath of anticipation. Time was running out. He needed to prepare Clarice for the task ahead.

He stalked the corridors, listening and looking. She was nowhere to be found.

Gesturing to a young, gangly footman, Hepburn asked, "Where is the princess?"

The footman jumped and blushed bright red. "M'lord, Her Highness is in the conservatory."

"Again?" Hepburn snapped.

The footman's eyes bugged in alarm. "M'lord?"

"Never mind." Hepburn started down the corridor. "I'll find out soon enough." She wasn't doing another demonstration, was she? Damned if he'd let her decorate him again. He didn't know if he could bear to have her touch him, because the mere thought of her made his blood heat as well as other, less biddable parts.

As he approached the conservatory, he first caught her scent. Like nutmeg and flowers and warm, rich wine. The aroma drew him back into the memory of last night, when he lay on top of her and thrust inside her. He didn't want to think about that, to remember how she'd felt as she moved beneath him, giving herself with unceasing generosity. Yet he breathed deeply, and his heartbeat speeded up.

Then he heard her voice.

You needed me.

But no. She didn't say that. She was saying, "You need this to affect a smooth line of the brow. See how it shapes and defines?"

She was talking about cosmetics again, unceasingly selling her salves and her unguents. She was as driven as he was, but for different reasons. She wanted money. To go back to Beaumontagne and take her place in the royal family, she would say. He would say . . . well, he didn't know what drove her. He didn't understand anything about her. And he wished he didn't care.

Keeping to the shadows, he glanced inside at the gaggle of ladies staring raptly toward the front. Millicent sat beside a small table, a cup of tea at her elbow, her cheek cradled in her hand. She looked plain and, well, lonely, just as Clarice had shouted at him just yesterday. Millicent
was
unvalued by his father, by Prudence, and by him. But he didn't feel guilty. Guilt was useless. Instead, he pondered how to correct the situation. He made decisions, and before the ball was over, Millicent would have what she wanted, whatever that might be. He would do what it took to make her happy.

Miss Larissa Trumbull and her mother sat there too, scornful moues distorting their mouths.

Hastily he stepped out of their view. The last thing he needed was to hear Larissa Trumbul's calculatingly sultry voice and be subjected to another extravagant display of her overlavish breasts.

He angled so that he could view Clarice.

She truly did have a regal air about her. She was petite, yet she stood like a tall woman, with her shoulders back and her arms curved gracefully at her sides. She was unerringly kind to those less fortunate, yet like someone who feared intimacy and its ultimate betrayal, she held a bit of herself apart. That detachment challenged him.

Was she the princess of some faraway country, or a fraud of unimaginable skill? He didn't know. He knew only that he had had her but still hadn't won her.

Her beauty took his breath away. Her hair . . . some said a woman's hair was her crowning glory, but with Clarice, it was true. Her curls were truly golden, catching the light in their soft, reflective curves. She had it pulled back and pinned it so some strands were held and others escaped in a careless array and draped onto the column of her neck. He longed to push those curls aside, to brush the nape of her neck with his fingers, with his lips. He wanted to kiss the soft arc of her cheek, the bow of her rosy mouth. His gaze lingered on her shapely bosom, so sadly neglected last night in his frenzy to mate, and resolved to make up for his negligence with long minutes . . . no,
hours
of attention.

Catching her scent, hearing her voice, seeing her, created such a mixture of craving —
not need
— in him that he feared to have anyone see him in this state. His cock was as erect as ever it had been during his adolescence, and he had as little control over himself as a lad in his first fever of wanting. His hands shook with the desire to go in there, to pick her up and carry her away. Away from the persuasive words, the simpering ladies, the trappings of civilization, and into a place of his making where nothing existed but him and her and their nude bodies tangled together until he enjoyed her in every way a woman could be possessed.

Clarice had a girl in the chair — what was her name? — Miss Rosabel, that seamstress from the village. The ladies watched — Millicent and Prudence, Lady Mercer and Lady Lorraine, Lady Blackston and Miss Diantha Erembourg — as Clarice pointed at Amy's chin, her cheeks, her nose. Taking the girl's hair in her hand, Clarice pulled it back from Amy's face, then tilted her head so Robert had a clear view of her profile.

She was a pretty girl, he thought idly. A lucky girl to have Clarice showing her how to create allure, for he recalled how Miss Rosabel looked when first she'd come to Freya Crags. She hadn't warranted a second glance.

As Clarice talked, the girl grimaced and shot a resentful sidelong glance at her.

How odd. Why would she be resentful?

And he'd seen that expression before on someone else. Something familiar about the girl's expression haunted him. He narrowed his gaze on her.

Then Clarice grimaced too, and he knew. Without fanfare he realized — they were sisters. Clarice and Amy were sisters.

They didn't look alike, but their gestures, their expressions, the way they walked, were identical.

He stepped back.

For with that realization came another one. The new seamstress wasn't a chance wanderer who had come to Freya Crags for a job. Their plan was deliberate. A few weeks before Clarice rode into town, this seemingly homely female arrived and waited to be transformed, in public, into a lovely young lady.

He didn't know whether to applaud their ingenuity or to curse the knowledge that Clarice was a charlatan of unusual proportions.

Both. Neither.

For to know that Clarice had to support her younger sister put a new cast on their charade. The role of beauty maker set easily on Clarice's shoulders. But the role of rascal seemed unlikely. Had the weight of a sister's security driven Clarice to deception?

More important, he had surmised she had sisters, but she had never admitted to their existence. Were there more sisters lurking about, or was it only Miss Rosabel she protected?

No matter. Nothing had changed. He still required Clarice to perform her duties at the ball. He still needed her as much as ever.

Going back to the footman, he said, "When Her Highness is finished, please direct her to my study." No, not his study. Memories haunted the study. "Rather, direct her to the library. I'll wait for her in the library."

* * *

Clarice walked arm in arm with Amy toward the servants' entrance. "You came at just the right time." Based on the clarity and fine texture of Amy's skin, Clarice had sold another dozen jars of her most expensive unguent, the royal secret luminous eye cream. "You are the ideal model."