Her Defiant Heart (28 page)

"Who, Jenny?" His voice was gentle. "Who is she?"

She opened her eyes. Her gaze shifted from him to the mirror. "I am."

"Ah." Christian understood the nature of Jenny's confusion better than she did. While she was still very much a prisoner of Amalie's drug, he could make no similar claim to explain the wanting that ruled him now. His only defense was that touching Jenny Holland was a powerful addiction in its own right. "Let me help you. Please, Jenny. I can take away the burning."

Jenny stared at him. How had it come to pass that he was asking for permission?
You are the whore I choose.
Had he not already ignored her objections and been on the point of serving his own needs? Yet here he was, wanting her, but wanting her consent more
.
When Jenny's answer came to her, she understood that he had succeeded in doing what he'd promised a week earlier. He had made her want him.

Her hands circled his neck, and her fingers threaded in his hair. She pressed lightly drawing him closer, and whispered a single word. "Yes."

Jenny's lips were so sensitive to the touch that when Christian's tongue traced a damp line across her upper lip she felt as if she would come out of her skin. The gentler he was, the worse it was. The burning he promised to ease became more intense. It was only when the pressure of his mouth and hands hardened that she could bear his touch.

His mouth slanted across hers, and she welcomed the bruising force of the kiss. Her reply was equally hungry, equally needy. His lips touched her face in hard, hurried forays. She felt his touch on her temples, her eyes, the bridge of her nose. Her lashes fluttered against his mouth. Her tapered nails scored impermanent crescents in his upper arms. His mouth pressed its outline to her cheeks, her jaw, the tender vulnerable spot below her ear. Her mouth was open, her tongue seeking, when his lips returned to hers. Their exploration was no mere tasting now; it was a carnal feast for the senses.

Lips and tongues were not sufficient to convey the wanting that had grown between them. Christian used his entire body to make Jenny aware of the depth of his need. His hands stroked her, caressing the sensitive underside of her arm from elbow to shoulder. His palms became familiar with the full shape of her breasts, her narrowly tapered waist, the flat plane of her belly. His legs learned the outline of hers; the sole of his foot rubbed her calf.

Jenny's hands flitted along Christian's arms, touched his thighs, the back of his legs. Her knee was bolder, insinuating itself between his legs so she could press herself against him. Her breath caught as he took her wrist and brought her hand to the point where her thighs cradled his. He asked her to touch him. She did.

The hard plane of Christian's abdomen retracted as Jenny's fingers explored the length of his cock. Her movements were unskilled, cautious, and still infinitely exciting. He knew he would lose control if he let her continue long. He drew her hand away, raised her wrist to his mouth, and kissed the delicate webbing of blue veins at the back. The soft mewling sound at the back of her throat fired Christian's blood. He said her name huskily, kissed her hard, and let his fingers caress her as intimately as she had done to him moments before. They dipped and stroked, preparing her for his entry. She had been hot. Now she was wet.

"Open your eyes, Jenny," he said.

Jenny complied. The hard edge that self-denial had carved in Christian's face was strangely beautiful. Just looking at him heightened her sensitivity to his touch. Her breathing was irregular now. She felt as if she was sipping air, drawing it in in tiny measures with a sibilant sound that was foreign to her.

"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say it once."

"Christian."

"Oh, God." He sat back between her parted thighs and slipped his hands beneath her buttocks. Even while her back arched upward, her body clearly wanting him, he felt tension elsewhere as she tried to withdraw from what was happening. "Don't look in the mirror. Look at me. Stay with me, Jenny Holland." Then he guided himself into her.

The carefully measured thrust nearly stripped Christian of control. She was so narrow, so tight. She lifted her hips, pushed into him, and it was done. He was hers, filling her with his rigid, swollen cock. She was his, accepting the length of him, holding him so perfectly that it seemed they were meant to know each other in just this way.

Jenny felt her body stretching to accommodate Christian's entry. There was pain in the beginning, but it was gone, and then forgotten. The ache of wanting returned, the need for something that was beyond her experience but nearly within her reach.

Clutching Christian's shoulders, Jenny bit down on her lip. "The burning," she whispered. "I still..."

"I know." He brushed his lips against hers. "Give me a moment. Don't move yet."

Except for the contractions she could not help, Jenny held herself still. It was the most difficult thing he had asked of her. Waves of heat flooded her body, and she wanted to ride the sensation, move with it and against Christian. He filled her, yes, but it was not enough. The tiny beads of perspiration on Christian's forehead, the taut line of his mouth, the dark liquid centers of his normally cool, unaffected eyes made Jenny believe he shared her feeling. He wanted something more as well, and soon they would have it.

"Now, Jenny," he said hoarsely in the manner of a man surrendering to a force greater than himself. "I can't hold... wanted you to be ready... can't wait."

Neither could Jenny. As Christian's hips ground into hers, she abandoned herself to the rhythm he taught her body. She arched, raising herself to meet his thrusts, pulling back each time he withdrew. Their joining was rough and hungry, almost angry with intensity. Her fingers sought purchase among the blankets and, finding them inadequate, she raised her arms above her head and gripped the brass head rails. Her posture was so pagan, so erotically vulnerable, that Christian was nearly undone by her exquisite offering.

Jenny had begun to believe that Christian had lied to her. The burning he had promised to assuage was getting worse, not better. Where their bodies joined the heat was unbearable. It was only gradually that she became aware that it was changing. She felt herself being lifted, being urged upward to a place where the fires could be extinguished. Christian was her guide, and she followed wherever he led. The place where he finally brought her made it impossible for Jenny to regret the journey.

Her legs tangled in his, muscles rigid with tension. She rubbed against him, and tight, indrawn breaths gave sound to her quickening excitement. Her head moved from side to side, but not in denial. Her movement captured the increasingly abandoned rhythm of their bodies. The sparks that skittered along her skin were cast off and scattered like stars. Her breasts quivered as Christian thrust into her again and again. She felt him drawing heat from her body as he made her acknowledge the pleasure he could give her. His name became a throaty cry that could not be held back as pure sensation rippled through her. Moments later he joined her, finding his own release and spilling his seed deep into her womb.

Jenny's white-knuckled grip on the brass rails eased. She drew her hands away slowly, but she made no move to touch Christian. He was lying on top of her, his heart hammering against his chest. His breath was warm against the curve of her neck, and Jenny could feel faint bursts of air on her skin.

Christian raised himself on one elbow after he withdrew. "It's all right," he said, reaching for the sheet that was balled up behind him. "I'm covering both of us now. You can open your eyes again." One corner of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile as Jenny waited until she felt the sheet across her breasts before she took his suggestion. "Your body is lovely, Jenny." He felt the familiar tap into the pain of not being able to paint her, and for now he ignored it. "You should not be ashamed of it."

"I'm not," she said quietly, pointing to the mirror, "but neither am I so vain that I need to admire myself in that."

"You were quite taken with yourself earlier," he said. He grinned, remembering how she had turned and posed, flashing her legs as she took stock of her reflection.

Jenny flushed. "I don't know why I did that. It must have been the brandy. I've never had it before. I usually only drink wine."

"Brandy's stronger than that, but it doesn't account for your condition. I'd be willing to wager that Amalie slipped something into your drink." Jenny started to sit up, but Christian stopped her. He laid his arm across her chest and caressed the side of her neck with his fingertips. "You really are quite lovely, you know," he said, matter of fact. "And then there is the way you seem so... so
unaware
of it. Amalie Chatham, however, is a collector of fine things. In addition to her art and emeralds, her dainty japanned boxes and her Paris gowns, our dear Mrs. Chatham knows how to choose young women. She has... er, scouts, shall we say, scattered over the breadth of this—"

"We shall say pimps," Jenny said. "That's what you meant, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I am rarely certain of the breadth of your vocabulary."

"Yes, well, I entertain no doubts about yours."

He chuckled. "Anyway, Amalie has men who procure women for her. I believe that most of the women come willingly, yet I've heard of exceptions. I imagine that she thought herself very fortunate when you presented yourself at her door. Even I might have questioned her business acumen if she had let you slip away."

Jenny swallowed with difficulty. Her mouth was dry. "She wanted me?" she asked. "For this house? To work for her... to..."

"Well," she said, coming to terms with it. "I have done it anyway, haven't I?"

"Wait," Christian said, his brows drawing together. "It wasn't—isn't—like that. What happened between us doesn't have anything to do with Amalie or this house."

"Doesn't it?" she asked, regarding him frankly. "Did you not name me the whore of your choosing?"

Christian had known he would regret those words even as they spilled from his lips. He had hoped they would not come back to him so soon. If there was a defense for them, he did not know it. "Yes, that is exactly what I said."

"And?"

"You are not a whore."

"Not then."

"Not now. You know I did not ask for you. I didn't know you were below stairs. I was with Maggie, remember? You were an unexpected arrival."

"But you knew I had been drugged."

"Not at first. I thought you were drunk. You were about as coherent and steady as one when you announced yourself. Do you recall that you made yourself available to me first?"

Jenny drew in a sharp breath. "That is not true."

"Then we have very different recollections. You wanted me."

"You made certain I did."

"Would you rather have suffered the effects of Amelie's drug?"

She hesitated. "I think so, yes."

He ignored her, leaning forward so that his face was closer to hers. "Little liar," he said softly. "They call it the itch. I've heard that it burns from the inside out, that it makes a woman desperate to have a man between her legs. Any man, Jenny. And I am told the itch doesn't go away without one. You needed me tonight, and... and I needed you. We both benefited from seeking our satisfaction together. What we did in this bed does not make you a whore. It also does not make me a villain."

The images he invoked in his husky, implacable whisper made Jenny's skin prickle. "It's not true that I would have gone to any man."

Christian wondered how she meant for him to construe that. To protect himself, he chose the less complicated interpretation. "We'll never know, will we? You are here now, with me, and what is done, is done."

Jenny simply stared at him. It took her a moment to find her voice. "What is done, is done? How tidy for you, Mr. Marshall, but you already know I possess a disordered mind."

"Jenny."

"No. You should not speak. Everything you say is more clutter." She started to rise, but he was having none of it. He laid a hand on her shoulder. Jenny lay back and closed her eyes. "I should never have come here. I wish Mrs. Brandywine had..." Her voice trailed off. The echo of her words came back to her and her eyes flew open. "Mrs. Brandywine!" she whispered. "How could I have not...?" One hand went to her mouth. From behind it, she asked, "Did you know? Did I tell you?"

"Jenny?" Christian went entirely still. "What are you saying? What about Mrs. B.?"

"She asked for you."

"Yes," he said, relaxing slightly. "You told me she sent you."

"I did?" She lowered her hand, revealing a deeply carved frown. "I cannot recall."

"You were not yourself then, and you were not clear about the purpose. I assumed it was—"

Jenny threw off Christian's hand. This time he let her go. She sat up, tugging on the sheet. "She's hurt. Mrs. Brandywine is hurt. She slipped on the icy walk and broke her shinbone. Mary Margaret went for Dr. Turner while I sat with Mrs. Brandywine, but when she started asking for you, we—that is, the rest of the staff and I—thought you should know about the accident." She lifted her hands, palms up, and said helplessly, "There was no one to fetch you except me."

Jenny kept talking as Christian flung off the sheet and jumped out of bed. Unconcerned with his nakedness, he began gathering his clothes, occasionally throwing something of Jenny's in her direction.