Surrender The Night (7 page)

While she was still gasping
, those long, skillful fingers skimmed the insides of her legs from ankles to upper thighs, stopping just short of her throbbing center. Instinctively she tried to close her legs, but his knees were there, urging hers farther apart. She stiffened, some of her pleasured haze clearing as she knew what would come next. But Demon Devon surprised her yet again.

He didn’t conquer the new territory that
was his for the taking. He rubbed back and forth on her body, wrapping about her a tender chain of kisses as he went. When he reached her breasts, he paused, gazing upon those rose-tipped mounds with a male need that reached out to her femininity like a supplicating hand. He pressed those fruits together and bent to sate his hunger upon her, nurturing them both, but leaving them ravenous, too. When she arched herself into his mouth, he obliged with tiny nibbles that sent shivers through her. This time, when his knees pushed gently upon hers, she gladly spread her legs.

The part of herself she’d rebelled against for such an age would have ruled her then had he not made a tactical error. He brought one of her hands to his pulsing shaft.

“Kat, Kat, feel what you do to me. I haven’t been so hard for anyone since I was a youth.
...”
He trailed off when her fingers flinched away from the contact. She began to fling her head from side to side, moaning a denial.

His passion-glazed eyes frowned upon her flushed face. “What nonsense is this? Come now, you needn’t whet my appetite. I’ve never desired a woman more.” When her muttering was matched by her hands, pushing at him weakly, he grew impatient. “Enough! Welcome me now as the woman you are, and I’ll forgive all. Bring me home and help me forget that you’ve known another.” Slowly, demandingly, he eased his narrow hips up into position, but his hands were tender as they brushed the hair back from her face.

Her eyes opened at that first intimate touch. The haze cleared completely, leaving them cold and desolate as highland winter winds. “Forgive all?
You?
It is you who will beg me for forgiveness one day. And I’ll have as much mercy then as you do for me in this moment.”

The words had a prophetic echo, but his face darkened heedlessly. “Then be my sacrifice, little saint, for I’m one devil who will have his due.” He thrust forward on the end.

The stab was swift, well placed, and ruthless. It sliced cleanly through her flimsy barrier and lodged him, heavy and full, within her. She tensed and turned her face into her shoulder to hide her pained grimace. Only vaguely was she aware of his shocked exclamation.

“My God! It can’t be. . . He pulled gently out, then pushed slowly back in as if to verify the narrowness of the channel no man had charted before him. Once more he pulled out, pausing to credit with his eyes what his member had felt. Spotty but undeniable was the blood dotting both his tumes
cence and the sheet beneath their joining. He paused, poised at her narrow opening, and closed his own eyes. Had she been looking at him then, she would have wondered at his expression. There was less of triumph in it and more of guilt mixed with joy. The joy of a heart that had not dared to hope . . .

But she wasn’t looking at him. She only felt the burning soreness, where his ruthless maleness stole what, under other circumstances, she would gladly have bestowed. When he stroked her hair away and turned her face up to his, she said dully, “Pray continue, devil, have your ‘due.’ By all that’s holy I swear that one day I will have mine.”

Those golden highlights muted some at her words. “Ah, Kat, forgive me, but I can’t let you go now. If only you’d told me . . . but it’s too late. Let me show you that I can give as well as take.” He began gentle, sliding movements, his pulsing hardness tender upon her sensitive bud. But he did not enter. He tipped her head back to lavish upon her the feeling shining from those eyes. She didn’t struggle, even when he coaxed her mouth apart. His agile tongue danced, dipped, and swayed, but lit no answering flame. Still the twin joys of her flavorful mouth and beautiful body were too much for him.

With the passion of a man who’d hungered too long, he cupped his hands beneath her buttocks and slowly, carefully, eased back into the tender flesh. When she tore her mouth away and moaned in pain, his own mouth quivered.

“Poor Kat, I’m so sorry. It always hurts the first time, but the damage is done. After pain comes pleasure. I promise.” His words ended on a groan as he buried his throbbing sword full length in the sheath fashioned for it.

With every thrust she grew more pliable, but the easing of her bodily agony increased her mental torment. Why had she been tempted, even briefly, to share in this ... rutting? The passion that made Devon shake and groan as he took his pleasure upon her was no substitute for love. Had this moment been sanctified by vows, yet not blessed by exchanged tender
ness, she’d still have felt used. The only love this man was capable of was here with them in this bed.

Thus, when Devon slowed his hungry lunges to slow, sliding strokes and took her mouth to spear it in a like manner with his tongue, she was proof against his seduction. She was limp beneath him even when he lifted her hips to better position her. That throbbing warmth had died, leaving only cinders too cold for him to kindle.

“Ah Kat, stubborn to the last. But God, you feel good. I’m sorry, but I can’t wait—” His words ended in a gasp as, with one last deep thrust, he bathed her with his passion. The potent splashes trickled off as he collapsed atop her, limp with contentment.

She tried to push him away then, but he caught her hands. “I’m sorry, darling . . . I didn’t realize. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” When she didn’t respond, he pleaded huskily, “Look at me, Kat.”

She obeyed, but her eyes were full of the contempt she felt for each of them in that moment.

He kissed her brow. “Don’t glare at me so. If only you’d told me, I would have gone slower.” His husky laugh stirred the hair at her temple. “I’d have tried, at any rate. You don’t understand what you do to me, Kat. But please believe, had I known, things would have been different.” He leaned away to look pleadingly into her eyes. His cheeks were a bit flushed, but she couldn’t credit him with sensitivity enough for guilt.

“You’d have let me go?” she challenged. When he hesitated, her lip curled. “I thought so.”

The softness that made his features more beautiful than ever hardened again to arrogance. “Why do you persist in painting me so black? Did I not let you go once? As for now ... I’d have tried to let you go, had I known you were still intact, but I admit I’m not sure I could have. The wanting of you didn’t ease, Kat. Not for three long years. No woman satisfied me.
...”
When she turned her head away in denial, he forced her chin back around. “At least credit me with honesty. You lie not only to me, but to yourself, if you tell me you don’t want me. No, don’t shake your head. Only your pride kept you remote from me. Before we’re done, you’ll admit as much. Would you like me to begin again?” He thrust his softening length deeper into her nestling warmth.

“No, I’ll forgo the . . . pleasure.” When she felt him stir within her, like a cat flexing lithe muscles, she forced out a hoarse, “Please.”

“Ah, the magic word.” He withdrew and vaulted off the bed, put his arms above his head, and stretched.

Compulsively, she absorbed him. Those long, strong legs buttressed the soaring planes of his slim waist and wide chest. His lines were as perfect as . . . Westminster’s. She blushed at the thought, but still she admired every muscled inch gilded by the firelight. Something primitive within her was pleased
she
had given him this lazy contentment. But when her eyes fell to that part of him that was still wet with his pleasure and her blood, her face hardened again. She pulled the sheet up over her nakedness and turned on her side away from him.

She heard the splash of water, then the feather mattress depressed as he sat down. The sheet was pulled away, and she was pushed onto her back. A cool, damp cloth eased between her legs, soothing her burning discomfort. She relaxed under his ministration, sighing her relief. Had she been less angry with him, she might have been touched by his consideration.

She was off guard when he persisted. “Katrina, why didn’t you tell me the truth?’ ’

Relaxation fled. He’d obviously not leave her be until he got an answer. Why was he so dogged about the subject? Shame might have motivated a lesser man, but she’d never known a man less subject to doubt than Devon. She pushed his hands away, propped the pillows behind her back and sat up. She tried to cover herself, but he was sitting on the sheet. She sighed at her own instinctive modesty. What difference did it make now? Besides, his eyes were steady on her face.

              ‘ ‘Would you have believed me?’ ’ she countered sullenly. He flung the cloth back into the basin.               “Perhaps not, but there are ways to . . . ascertain the truth.” When she blushed, his smile had a touch of melancholia. “So much the vicar’s daughter, still.”

She knew he was only teasing, but the reminder of her father sent a shaft of agony through her. She looked from her own exposed flesh to his casual posture, one foot propped on the edge of the bed, an arm on his upraised knee. His satisfied manhood lolled against one strong thigh, but the blood he’d not bothered to wipe away testified to what she’d lost this night.

“Yes, Papa would be proud indeed of his only child if he could see her now.” Her voice was soft, but her bitterness was acid enough to disintegrate even his steely control.

Indeed, his eyes flickered away from hers, as if he could not sustain her gaze. “Do you think he’d have been glad to see you run ragged by women not fit to kennel with their bitches?’ ’

“Probably not glad, but I think he’d agree I’d made the best of what could have been a worse bargain.”

/His face tightened, then he leaped off the bed and went to the armoire against the wall. He ripped open the bottom drawer and brought a velvet case to the bed. He tossed it beside her. “Open it.”

She did so, her movements jerky. Rubies and diamonds winked at her even in the dim glow from the fire. She flung the case away as if it singed her fingers. The necklace, bracelet, and earrings splashed onto the Aubusson rug like drops of blood and tears. The one she’d spilled this night unwillingly; she’d never give him the satisfaction of the other. When his breath whistled through his teeth, she raised her head bravely to meet his fury.

“You might consider me a whore, but no gifts, no abuse, no false kindness will ever make me accept that fate. Then, no matter how many times you use my body, I will still be Katrina Lawson, vicar’s daughter, in my heart.”

Only the crackling of the fire broke the tense silence, then he murmured, “And would your father prefer to see you alone, friendless, joyless? Or as the cherished companion of a man wealthy enough to protect his own? If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else soon enough.” He scooted on his knees in front of her and put his hands flat on the mahogany bedstead behind her back.

“You want the details of why I was there last night? Sutterfield has been bragging for weeks that you were his mistress, you, who had refused me.” He moderated his rising voice and went on evenly, “Do you know how that made me feel? And then an acquaintance told me Sutterfield intended to join the satyrs, bringing his own offering, and I feared maybe he was using this ruthless way to end your . . . association. Think, Kat. What instinct led me there? If we’re not bound in some curious way that perhaps neither of us wants, why did I know you’d be there? I assure you I’ve never before associated with such an organization. A man’s intimate life should remain just that—intimate. Surely you know enough of me to at least believe that.”

She had to look away from his penetrating gaze, for at the moment she couldn’t deal with the ramifications of his statements. He’d gone there to save her, her eager heart trilled. She believed him at last. And her conscience answered sourly, Yes, to keep you for himself.

He continued inexorably, ‘ ‘I was terrified to see you there, and I risked much to get you away. I bring you to your own house, give you a fortune in jewels, then have you revile me for my ruthlessness.” He leaned so close that his breath stirred the hair at her temples. “Katrina, admit it. You’re not meant to die a virgin. Don’t you understand why every man you meet is soon panting to get under your skirts?”

She shook her head violently and tried to push him away, but he caught her hands and insisted, “You know it’s true. It’s not just your beauty, though you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. It’s the paradox of this mouth”—he stroked the full, firm lines with a gentle finger—“strong and sensual as Lilith’s, with this exquisite face and form.” He lightly ran his hand from her temple to her jaw, then down her body. Only then did he let her go.

“You’re every man’s fantasy: both angel and wanton. And I have been the one fortunate enough to win you—”

“To steal me!”

“If you like. But I’ll not give you up. I’m sorry for hurting you, but I’m not sorry you’re here. And here you remain until you learn to enjoy being my mistress.”

The tears she refused to shed roughened her voice when she asked, “And when you tire of me? What then?”

“You’ll have this house and a lifelong . . . annuity. I promise.”

She should have appreciated his honesty, but perversely she was hurt that he made no protestations of eternal desire. She looked around the room, then back at him. “And this . . . bribery with the things I’ve never hungered for is supposed to replace the one thing I’ve always wanted above all?”