Surrender The Night (6 page)

He lowered his mouth over hers, but froze at the taste of her lips. He lifted his head a hairsbreadth and licked her salty tears away. The anger in his face was replaced by resignation, then tenderness. “This is not what I want you to feel at such a moment,” he said gently. ‘ ‘I am different to the satyrs, Katrina. Since you persist in trying to equate me with them. I’ll prove it.” He released her and stood back, though the veins in his neck stood taut with the effort it cost him.

She stayed where he put her, looking at him through the haze of her tears.

Clenching one big fist, he turned away. “You need rest after the trauma of this night, as I should have realized. I just want you so very badly.” At the door he turned again to face her. “One night. The door will be locked, and guarded, so don’t think of escape. Tomorrow evening I’ll be back. And I want to feel fire in your lips then instead of tears.”

The door closed behind him. Katrina collapsed on the bed and wept, both glad and sorry that he’d gone. Then exhaustion claimed her before she even thought to remove her clothes, and left her only troubled dreams as companions.

              The next day passed all too quickly. Martha brought her sustaining meals and a book of poetry sent by Devon. Katrina’s heart began to pound as the sunset filled the room with radiance, and she shoved away most of her dinner. Pacing up and down, she rubbed her elbows, trying to come to terms with her chaotic feelings. How was it possible both to dread and to anticipate someone’s arrival? Devon had always stirred her strongest feelings, as she, apparently, had stirred his. Except for the one feeling she needed from him most . . . The sad smile froze on her lips when a knock came at the door.

The key rattled in the lock. Leaning against the windowsill, she tried to look casual so he wouldn’t see how her knees shook. He entered, relocked the door, then bowed. He was casually attired in breeches and white shirt, but he looked like Adonis to Katrina. In that moment she had to admit how she’d yearned for the sight of him. Yearned for, God help her, more. Still, she had to be strong. If she were, he might still let her go.

“Good even’, milady. How do you feel this fine night?”

“Better, but still tired.” She affected a languid yawn.

That brilliant smile flickered to life, beaming on her as brightly as the westering sun. “Ah, then we shall sleep well. Together.” He approached.

Katrina clenched her fists to keep from running. Too late denial rose to her lips; too late her feet cautioned pride. In a trice she was in his arms, his lips upon hers. He consumed her, obviously famished, but delicate, too. As if he were a gastro
nome dining with the queen. Dear Lord, the hunger he stirred in her. She fought it, and him, weakly, but was powerless before their mutual need. Too long had it been denied. For three years it had loomed over them, and she knew, with a fatalism her heart could not ignore, that she was about to be buffeted by its force.

When she was bent like a reed before a primeval gale, he cajoled, “Kat, this moment was fated from our first meeting. I ask you one last time to let it be as memorable as our bodies long to make it. Please, my darling.” His eyes delved into hers as if he would know her, body and soul. We’re not using, he

communicated with those compelling eyes; we’re sharing the finest joy men and women have to give each other.

She understood, but morality and sensuality waged a fierce battle within her. A dozen replies flickered through her confused brain, none, she knew, sufficient to win her freedom. As she stared up into those solemn, waiting eyes she even considere
d telling him the truth. But the same instinct that had kept her quiet thus far guided her now: pride.

She’d let him see too much of his devastating effect upon her. She’d responded too wholeheartedly to his kisses. Better he think her shameless than know how weak he made her. Besides, if he knew she’d never been any man’s mistress, he was likely to lavish on her that tenderness that made her long for the impossible. No, far better that he think her used and use her accordingly. At least then fear and revulsion . . . yes, she told herself fiercely, revulsion . . . would quiet her own unseemly instincts.

Thus she lifted her head and murmured, “Release me and I’ll give you my reply.” When he did so, eyeing her hopefully, she took a tiny step back for better leverage. Before he’d an inkling of what she would do, she lifted her hand and struck him with all her might across his beautiful face. The slap echoed in the still chamber like the first shot between duelists.

“You have my answer, sir. Now treat me as your instincts bid.” She didn’t bother running. When his stunned look faded and his pupils contracted to two evil beads, she stayed where she was. His mouth quivered, then
set to a thin, hard line. Two ruthless hands settled on her shoulders, caught the well-worn cotton dress, and ripped downward.

“I
f you’d rather I treat you as a slut, then far be it from me to disappoint you.” His color rose until the imprint of her hand barely stood out on his cheek. His strong fingers made short work of her clothes until tatters floated down her body to the floor. She stood in the ruined pool like a statue, the air a cooling spray upon her, and closed her eyes to block his triumph.

Triumph did indeed flare in that heated gaze. But other emotions, deeper, truer, imbued it with soft golden lights that chased the angry shadows away. Radiance flickered over her like Olympian sunlight. When he reached out to her, his hands
shook. He paused, stared at them in dismay, then wiped them off on his breeches. His touch settled lightly on her strong but graceful shoulders, tracking their curves down to her slim arms, all the way to her hands. He twined his fingers with hers and kissed her knuckles.

He released her and skimmed down her sides, watching her all the while. She stayed frozen, her eyes still closed, even when he molded her from rib cage to hipbones again and again, as if he could believe neither the slimness of her waist nor the velvet of her skin. Next he filled his hands with the rich curves of her buttocks, then traced the backs of her long, slim legs down to her knees.

Still he watched her face, as if the twin pleasures of sight and touch would be too great to bear. His posture was eager, waiting. When she trembled, the masculine hunger in his face was softened by tenderness.

Running his fingers through the fall of hair glittering like hammered gold in the firelight, he said, “Ah, Kat, you’ve bewitched me. In truth you’re too beautiful to be earthly. You should sit atop a pedestal and have us lesser mortals worship at your feet.”

She couldn’t help it; she had to smile at the picture he evoked. “Now, that I would enjoy, having you kneeling before me—” She stared down at the lustrous head bent in what certainly
looked
like homage.

“Goddess, bestow on me thy charity. Have mercy on one who trembles before you in earnest desire to offer all I have to thy charms.
...”
His head lifted; his eyes pinioned hers. Now she could see the conflicting emotions there. Lust warring with tenderness, anger battling joy, need struggling against pride. And because his emotions so closely mirrored hers, she backed away from him, unable to cope with his feelings, or her own.

She retreated to the bed and pulled one hanging partially over her nakedness. He stayed where he was, watching her with that gaze that kept her prisoner as surely as chains. “No, Devon,” she whispered. “You can’t make of this . . . tawdry tryst a noble thing. I’m no goddess to bestow my favors on you. Gift me though you might with all your worldly goods after this night, you can never recompense me for what I value above all.”

Slowly he rose. Just as slowly he began unbuttoning his shirt. “And what is that, my dear?” he asked kindly, as if humoring her.

“My self-respect.”

He paused, then flung his shirt aside so hard that two of the pearl buttons popped off when they impacted against the wall. “I see. Still you persist in this fiction that a . . . now, how did you put it?” He methodically began on his breeches. “Ah yes, a tawdry tryst is all you can know with me. Tell me, my dear, did Sutterfield fill you with seed so ennobling that he put you above my touch?”

She shook her head desperately. “No, you don’t under
stand.
...”
She took a deep breath, but the words would not come.

“In that you have the right of it,” he snapped, kicking off his shoes so he could pull his breeches down. “I don’t at all understand why you would gladly bestow on that . . . man mannequin what should have been mine. And even now, you refuse me, when I see in your eyes and feel in your kiss how much you want me.” He peeled off his stockings, then slipped out of his last garment and stood, feet braced apart, to taunt, “So, m’dear, I’m taking pity on your confusion and will make the decision for you. But if it will make you feel more the thing, if you don’t gladly participate in all I want to
do with you by the month’s end I’ll let you go.”

Her eyes stayed on his face as her color deepened. ‘ ‘Is that a promise?”

“You have my word as a gentleman.” He smiled sardonically. “Or perhaps I should give you my word in a manner you’ll more agree with: You have my word as a nobleman. Now, enough talk. Come, wench, it’s time to earn your keep.” When her nostrils flared at his deliberate insult, his smile deepened. The tender gold lights in his eyes had been drowned by brandy hot enough to bum.

Compulsively, her gaze dropped to appraise him. He re
minded her more than ever of a great, sleek cat, with his tawny hair, rippling muscles, and long, powerful legs. Yet as he strode toward her she could not ignore the powerful reality of his manhood. His big, rigid member blatantly proclaimed the purpose on his face, homing toward her like a compass needle seeking true north. And her emotional fears became childish under the rush of her physical ones. She knew the clinical details of the sex act, but forewarned was not forearmed in this instance. She dropped the bed hanging and backed away, her hands held out to ward him off.

When he was almost upon her, she dodged, but he caught her and pushed her back against the wall, holding her wrists above her head in one hand. The sensations at her back, of silk wallpaper warmed by the fire and hard, smooth wood, were matched by the sensations at her front. Had she been less frightened, she would have enjoyed the touch of so much unfettered male power, but all her senses were trained on one thing. It prodded her in the abdomen like a warning finger. When he drew his chest back to look down at the full breasts pressed against him and run his free hand lightly over them, she barely felt the touch.

His fervent, “S’truth, Kat, you’ve a form made for love. These lovely breasts, full, round, and firm, are ripe for a man’s mouth,” was a cacophony in her ringing ears. Even when he bent and showed by action what he meant, she didn’t move at the tender suckling of one blush-tinged orb. When his mouth lowered to the scented hollow of her bosom and trailed down her flat stomach, he still cupped that breast, as if savoring the wetness marking his possession. Groaning, he released her wrists and knelt to press his cheek into her warm belly, running his hands up and down her perfect legs.

She drew a shuddering breath as that ravenous pressure eased and focus
sed on that variegated gold head buried against her. So sincere his husky praise sounded. In other circumstances she might have believed the soft endearments, but she knew his adoration was wholly carnal.

If only . . . tears sprang to her eyes. The pain in her heart galvanized her paralyzed limbs. She pushed him away so hard he fell sideways. She ran for the door, uncaring of her nakedness. She was intent only on escaping him, this room, and the captivity that she did not dare welcome no matter how she might long to.

His laughter rumbled low from his chest, like the mating growls of an aroused lion. His soft steps might have been the pads of that fearsome beast, so quick and tireless were they in their pursuit. He sprang upon her long before she reached the door and, in four great strides, had her on the bed. Still he chuckled, even when she flailed her arms and legs beneath his weight.

“My redoubtable Kat, what a joy you are. You are destined to be reincarnated as a bulldog. Doubtless I’ll be a mastiff, sniffing about you, trying to find a step to mate you upon.” When she only struggled harder beneath him, he lowered his laughing mouth over hers.

She attempted to turn her head aside, but he wrapped one leg about hers to keep her still, freeing his hands to cup her head in his palms. She bore the full frontal assault then, and surely no army could boast a vanguard so awesome as the power of those warm, mobile lips. They tasted of brandy, of earthy male and the ambrosia he had promised. She tried to resist, oh, how she tried, but her beating hands grew limp upon his shoulders.

Fight though she had, for this, this she had yearned for three long years. For strong arms firm enough to hold but gentle enough to cherish; for warm lips eager enough to devour but controlled enough to sample; for roaming hands ardent enough to bruise but patient enough to caress. The hands that had grown limp upon him began a journey of their own.

Such warm, supple skin. She skimmed his firm biceps and felt the corded strength of his neck, then charted the vast course of his broad shoulders. When he obligingly fell aside, she could touch the planes and curves of his chest. The light brown hairs were soft but prickly. When she curiously touched the small brown nipples, she was shocked to feel them harden beneath her fingers. He drew his mouth away at last, leaving them both panting for air. She might have surfaced then from the sensual pool he was drowning her in if he hadn’t lowered that chest to rub it back and forth upon her excruciatingly sensitive breasts.