Tender the Storm (26 page)

It took a moment for Rolfe's words to pierce the sensual fog in Zoë's brain. She spread her hands against the bunched muscles of his shoulders restraining him. Rosamund was the name of his mistress. Hadn't the dowager said so?

Horror-struck, she whispered, "Say my name."

Name.
He must think of a name. Not Zoë. "Rosamund," he said aloud.

Rosamund?
Oh God! Feebly, she tried to push out of his arms. "I shouldn't be here." Rather hysterically, she wondered if she could creep from the bed and gain the sanctuary of her own chamber before Rolfe realized who she was. "I must go," she said, and raised her head from the pillow.

"Kitten, easy," soothed Rolfe, refusing to give up the illusion. He positioned her beneath him, and holding her down, slowly began to enter her.

Zoë was beside herself. Rosamund! He thought that she was Rosamund! Her body went rigid. She tried to lunge away from him. He adjusted his weight, pinning her more securely to the mattress. Her frantic struggles to dislodge him only drove him deeper. Feminine muscles, deep in her body, clenched against him, resisting his masculine intrusion, staving off his deeper, surer penetration. "Ah, kitten," he said, "it's kinder this way," and holding her still, he thrust into her.

Zoë gasped. She beat at him with her fists. She wanted to die with the fiery pain of his possession. She wanted to die of shame. Gradually, the pain receded, but still she fought him.

The woman in his arms was a virgin. Rolfe stilled. Reality and fantasy had become inextricably woven together. "Zoë," he said, but so softly he knew she did not hear him. Zoë was on fire for him, wanting him as much as he wanted her. "Be still!" he warned, gritting his teeth as her frenzied movements drove him deeper, pushing him to the edge. But it was too late. Already, the pleasure was coming at him in waves. "Ah love!" he cried out. "Forgive me!" and he drove into her, claiming her with a violence that left him shaken.

Several minutes were to pass before he could bear to allow reality to intrude. And then it came to him that his mistress was weeping uncontrollably into the bedclothes.

"Rosamund?"

No response, but the weeping subsided into muffled sniffles and gulps. He pulled back the bed drapes
and groped on the bedside table. It took some doing, but he finally got a candle lit. He had a premonition of disaster the moment he recognized that he was in his own chamber in his house in St. James. He could not credit that he had committed the folly of taking some woman of the streets to his bed. Hadn't he told
Dere
never to permit such a thing again?

Swearing under his breath, Rolfe turned to face the woman in his bed. Shock and horror held him speechless. Zoë! He closed his eyes as the remorse washed through him. Oh God, what had he done to her? He'd abased her, used her with more intimacy than he'd used with any woman. It wasn't his fault. He'd been acting out a fantasy. Zoë wasn't supposed to be
there!
He could not bear so much guilt.

"Are you all right?" His voice was hoarse.

"I —I
think so." Hers was tremulous.

Reassured on that point, Rolfe leapt from the bed and roared. "What the hell are you doing in my chamber?"

Zoë was biting down on her lip, looking up at him with sad, accusing eyes as if he were an ogre. He felt like an ogre —a debaucher of innocents. But
she
had done this to him! The thought made him angrier.

"I refuse to take the blame for what happened," he said with a rather determined defiance, and groped in his mind for a way to explain his behavior. The truth, that he had dreamed he was making love to his own wife, he instantly discarded. Zoë would be shocked, and rightly so, "I had too much to drink. I was dreaming," he said. "I thought you were another lady."

"Rosamund," said Zoë, "your mistress."

Relief flooded Rolfe. Better by far that she
accept
that lie than divine the awful truth. Her opinion of his character would be even lower, in those
circurnstances
. He was being let off lightly, and thanked God for it. Moreover, Zoë did not seem particularly overset by what had just transpired. He had expected . . . well . . . hysterics.

Zoë had other things to occupy her mind. Before he had turned on her, she'd had a chance to look under the sheet. There was blood on her legs. She wondered if she dared ask him to send for a physician. Her mother had never mentioned anything about blood. But, all things considered, she was beginning to perceive that her mother had deceived her abominably. It was Charlotte who had the right of it. No women in her right mind would welcome a man's embrace. Never again would she submit herself willingly to such agony, no, not even if she, like Rosamund, were paid for it! She moved her legs and felt something sticky. Oh God, perhaps she was dying? She wondered if she should mention it.

"Who told you about Rosamund?" asked Rolfe. Where the hell was his dressing gown? He felt ridiculous stalking about as naked as the day he was born. He saw his breeches, and reached for them. "And you still haven't answered my original question. Why are you here?"

"I quarreled with your mother," said Zoë. "I can't go back there. I came to tell you."

"You can't possibly stay here!" The thought appalled him. He'd take her again. He knew it. It would be torture to have her under his roof.

"I don't intend to," said Zoë. As he pulled on his breeches with his back to her, she surreptitiously peeked under the sheet. The flow of blood seemed to have stopped. Perhaps she would survive after all?

"What does that mean?" asked Rolfe.

Zoë gave him her full attention. "I thought I might put up with my friend, Francoise. If you have no objection, that is.
It's
months since we've seen each other." She saw the indecision in his eyes, and, as an added persuasion, threw in, "Your mother and I are in need of a respite from each other's society, Rolfe."

"It's been difficult for you, has it, kitten?"

Zoë had no wish to enter upon an acrimonious discussion involving her mother-in-law. In the space of a few minutes, her world had tilted crazily. All her hopes for her marriage lay in ruins. She had a new purpose and must be single-minded in its pursuit. "It hasn't been easy," she allowed cautiously.

"I didn't abandon you, you know." He sat down on the edge of the bed and captured her hand.

"Didn't you?" She eyed him warily.

"I just wanted to keep you safe."

His fingers were massaging her wrist. The touch was surprisingly . . . sensual. He'd been such a tender lover, Zoë was thinking, until he'd gone and spoiled it all. Or perhaps it wasn't his fault. Perhaps nature had never intended them for each other. They just did
not . . . fit.

And they did not suit. She had hoped, when he wakened and found her in his
bed . . .
oh God, she did not know what she had hoped. And all the time, he had supposed that he was making love to his mistress! A sob caught at the back of her throat. She choked it down and deliberately removed her hand from Rolfe's disturbing clasp.

"You needn't think I shall expect you to be at my beck and call," she said, determinedly pursuing her goal.
"Far from it, Rolfe.
Francoise and I are quite capable of entertaining ourselves. A husband would only be in the way" And she hoped he didn't learn the truth of that statement until it was too late.

In that moment, Rolfe would have promised Zoë anything within reason to make up for the experience he had just put her through. He knew that there would be talk in
ton
circles if it became known that they had not shared the same roof while they were both in town. The alternative was to send her home to the Abbey, or keep her with him.

The thought of keeping her with him was an almost irresistible temptation. He
must
resist it. Even now, knowing how much he had hurt
her,
shocked her, his senses were stirring. He wanted her. He had tasted her surrender. Surely
that
had not been part of the illusion? Oh yes, he wanted to make love to Zoë, but having once allowed himself the complete freedom of her body, he did not know if he could trust to his restraint.

There was a more cogent reason, however, for keeping Zoë at a distance. Until all the members of
La Compagnie
were traced and captured, he did not wish her to run any risks. He did not think his cover had been penetrated. But that possibility was always there. He could be a marked man.

Abruptly rising to his feet, he said, "How long do you intend to visit Francoise?"

"Two weeks.
Three at the most."

"That doesn't seem so long. Then, of course, you'll return to the Abbey."

"Thank you," said Zoë. "Would you mind turning your back while I get dressed?"

He escorted her to their adjoining door. "You never did tell me why you were in my bed, kitten," he said, and flashed her one of his heart-stopping grins.

Zoë ignored it. "It's a long, boring story," she said. She had gamble and lost. She had yielded her body to him, and
see
where it had brought her. She wasn't about to do the same thing with her heart.

Rolfe was strangely reluctant to let her go. He knew he had to make amends, but wasn't sure how to go about it. "Zoë, wait." She regarded him half fearfully, her hand already pushing open the door to her chamber. "Zoë, rest assured, when the time comes to make you mine, it won't be anything like it was tonight." And he hoped he could hold himself to that promise.

She said nothing, but stared at him gravely.

He coughed. "What I mean to say is this, kitten. A man doesn't make love to his wife the way he makes love to his mistress." Surely the knowledge that he had a mistress would lay her fears to rest?

"It doesn't signify," answered Zoë, and made to push past him.

"Wait! Zoë, I was half dreaming. You must believe me. You should have wakened me. Why didn't you?"

Her eyes fell before his. What could she say? She'd fought him like a jungle cat. Hadn't he noticed?
Evidently not.
"I must have been dreaming too," she said. "Yes. That's what it was. It was all a dream, a stupid dream."

She sounded so lost, so achingly alone. A constriction tightened Rolfe's chest. He wanted to gather her in his arms and comfort her. He dared not. Still, he detained her, not knowing what he hoped to gain.

"Kitten?"
He didn't know what he wanted to say. Smiling, he invented, "Perhaps I should be the one to look after the key to this door?"

"Oh, no," said Zoë. "Now that I know what to expect, I shall guard it with my very life."