A Taste of Paradise (18 page)

“Take off your clothes,” he said raggedly.

She blinked. “What?”

“Why should we deny ourselves when this is what we both want?”

Sophia must have moved too slowly, for he brushed her hands aside and worked the buttons on the front of her gown. The material parted, exposing the soft swells of her breasts. He groaned as he cupped the firm mounds in his hands, teased and caressed them, stroked his thumbs across her nipples. The tips peaked and distended. The throbbing nearly drove Sophia mad with wanting. Her body was no longer hers as she pressed herself against him; it belonged to Chris, to do with as he wished.

His hands left her breasts, pushed her gown down her shoulders and slid it past her hips. It pooled at her feet in a colorful froth. Her chemise went next, and then her stockings and shoes. She swayed against him. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

He gazed down at her, his eyes dark, intense, hungry. Sophia raised her eyes to his and released a slow, shallow breath. A shiver ran through her. Never had a man looked at her like that. His face was stark with need, his eyes shadowed, enigmatic, haunted. Was he still plagued by guilt? Her mouth went dry as she watched him remove his clothing and boots

Her gaze slid over his body, tall, dark, lean. Broad shoulders, wide, deep chest, slim hips, taut belly, heavily muscled thighs and long, lean legs. Her eyes settled on his erection, rising forcefully against his stomach.

His eyes smoldered with dark fire. “Despite our past history, never doubt that I want you, Sophia,” he said.

Sophia didn't doubt his lust, but she wondered how long a marriage based only on physical attraction could last. Would Chris continue to blame her for the death of his best friend? Could she accept him on those terms?

Sophia's thoughts fractured when Chris joined her on the bed. Her body thrummed to life as his hand slid over her belly, through the tight, dark curls at the juncture of her thighs and cupped her intimately. His head lowered to suckle her breast as his fingers parted her, exploring the slick folds of her cleft.

Sophia whimpered and arched against his questing lips and probing fingers. She was on fire. She wanted to touch him, caress him, breathe in his scent.

“Touch me,” he said, as if reading her mind.

She raised her hands to his chest, learning the texture of his skin, savoring the ripple of tendons over each rib. Her senses came alive. Nerves flickered, unfurled, tightened in anticipation. His muscles tensed beneath her touch. His groan encouraged her to venture further. She guided her hands over his hips to his hard buttocks, pressing him more fully against her.

She felt his sex jerk against her thigh. Her nerves were tightening while her body softened. She yelped in dismay when Chris flipped her over on her stomach, pushed her tumbled mass of black hair aside and nuzzled her nape. Then he kissed an agonizing slow path down her spine, stopping to fondle the taut mounds of her bottom.

“What are you doing?” Sophia asked as he nipped her playfully. Though she liked what he did, she didn't know where it was leading.

“Don't be impatient,” Chris growled. “I'm not going to hurt you. There are many ways to make love. I intend to teach you all of them.”

He pushed her knees up so that her bottom was raised. Never had she felt so exposed and vulnerable. His heat scorched her as he pressed himself against her. He bent over her, kissed her neck, her back, then grasped her breasts in both hands and teased her nipples. She stiffened when she felt his sex penetrate her.

“You're still so tight,” Chris whispered against her ear. “It won't hurt this time, I promise.”

He slid into her velvety folds, teased a ragged moan from her throat and felt her relax. Flexing his hips, he slid in all the way. She was hot, wet; he felt her stretching to accommodate him. She felt so damn good, Chris had to force himself to remain still lest he spill immediately.

Sophia gasped and wriggled her hips against him.

“Don't,” he warned. “Wait until I regain control. Do you realize how good you feel?”

“I hope as good as you feel to me.”

Her words pushed him close to the edge. Flexing his hips, he began to move, pushing deep, then withdrawing, again and again, faster, ever faster. Blood thundered through his veins as he pounded inside her, his hands grasping her hips to hold her still. His climax hovered so close he feared he would burst. But he gritted his teeth and hung on.

“Chris . . .”

Her passion served to inflame him. He didn't know if he could wait much longer. “Come to me, Sophia. I need you now.”

Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and then she screamed. He absorbed the full power of her release and matched it with his own. He kept thrusting until her tremors subsided and she went boneless beneath him. Then he rolled off and collapsed beside her, panting harshly.

He glanced at Sophia. Her eyes were closed; a tear slipped from beneath her eyelid and trickled down her cheek.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not physically.”

He rose up on his elbow, watching her closely. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“After Desmond's death I gave up on marriage. But I secretly vowed that if I ever found a man who would have me, it would have to be a love match. You don't love me, Chris.”

Unable to reply, unwilling to admit to uncharted feelings, Chris left the bed and began to dress. Guilt rode him, though he had no idea why. He was marrying Sophia for her own good. Their marriage would save her from her brother's evil machinations as well as from men like Rigby. Chris didn't have to love Sophia to marry her. All he was required to do was treat her well and protect her. Those things he was quite willing to do.

“Your silence speaks volumes about your feelings for me,” Sophia choked out.

“Very few people marry for love,” Chris replied. “You need my protection; why can't that be enough?” He strode to the door.

“Chris, wait!”

He turned. “What is it?”

“Why won't you let me seek employment? If something turns up in Spanish Town or Ocho Rios, I see no reason not to accept the post. I'll be far enough away that you won't have to set eyes on me again.”

“Forget it, Sophia. If the slaves revolt, you won't be safe anywhere but at Sunset Hill. As of today, my slaves are free. The only way you can remain in my home, under my protection, is to become my wife.”

“Is that why you went to Headquarters House today?”

“Yes. I signed the papers today. Everything is legal and binding. I'm going to ask Mundo to arrange a meeting with the field hands and their families tonight. I intend to ask them to remain as paid workers.”

“Will I see you at dinner this evening?”

“Probably not. I'll eat in the kitchen with Mundo before the meeting.”

Chris left Sophia lying in bed, even though his body was far from sated. Would he ever get enough of her? As he mounted Atlas and rode to the distillery, he wondered if marrying Sophia would ease his guilt over Desmond's death, or cause him to remember his friend every time he looked at her. He sighed. When he made love to Sophia, Desmond ceased to exist.

He told himself it was Sophia's ripe body that enthralled him, her passionate response to his lovemaking, the sweetness of her kisses. That was what made him want her for his wife.

Love wasn't an issue between him and Sophia. It could never be part of their relationship. Their marriage would be based on mutual lust and Sophia's need for protection. Any stronger emotion would compromise his principles. The last thing he wanted was to forget Desmond, the friend he had killed in the name of love.

That evening Chris waited in an open field near the distillery for the workers to arrive. Torches placed in strategic places illuminated the area. As the slaves approached the meeting place, Chris searched their faces. Most appeared defeated, some angry, others just plain weary.

“They don't know what to expect,” Mundo said. “They barely know you. The previous master left the plantation in the hands of cruel overseers.”

“I dismissed those men as soon as I realized what was going on. I don't believe in slavery, as you well know, nor do I condone cruel and inhuman punishment.”

Mundo began counting heads. When all fifty men and women had arrived, Chris stepped onto an overturned barrel and raised his hands for quiet. The rumble of voices ceased as fifty pairs of black eyes gazed up at him. Chris couldn't help wondering how he would feel if he were in their shoes.

Frightened, he supposed; wary and helpless certainly. Slaves existed at the whim of their white masters, who held the power of life or death. Insurrections had occurred many times during Jamaica's troubled history. All had been quashed by the militia at the cost of countless lives.

“Sunset Hill cannot exist without you,” he began, looking from face to face. “While I need each and every one of you, I don't want you as slaves. I'm asking you to work for me as free men. I want you to work for me because you want to, not because I own you and you have no choice.”

Blank stares met his words. Did they not know what he was offering? Were they so oppressed that they couldn't grasp the concept of freedom?

“As of today, you are all free men and women. This very day, each of you will receive a document freeing you from the yoke of slavery.”

It started as a murmur and soon escalated into a crescendo of sound, rising ever louder. A woman wailed and fell to her knees. Others followed suit. A large man whose ebony skin glistened in the torchlight stepped forward.

“Are we really free, master? All of us?”

Chris nodded. “Every last one of you. I hope, however, that you will continue to work for me for wages. You are the blood and guts of Sunset Hill. I cannot prosper without you. There's work available for the women at the manor house, if they so desire. I've placed Chuba in charge of the hiring.”

What happened next was like an explosion. The former slaves were all talking at once, some singing, others lifting their arms, praising God. A few remained skeptical.

“They want to celebrate, Captain,” Mundo said.

“Let them. Give them tomorrow off to decide if they wish to stay and work for wages. Impress upon them that they will have improved quarters and can come and go as they please as long as they put in a full day's work for a full day's pay. Report back to me tomorrow night, after they have made their decisions.”

Chris returned to the house. Chuba met him at the door.

“They know, Chuba. Now it's up to them to decide what they wish to do.”

“I speak for everyone when I say thank you, Captain. From the day you walked in the door, I knew you would be different from other white masters.”

Chris clapped Chuba's shoulder. “In order to make this plantation successful, I need men willing to work. But I won't force anyone to stay, nor punish anyone who wishes to leave.”

“It is inevitable that some will choose to leave.”

“I expect it, but they will be replaced by free men of color.” He glanced around. “Where is Miss Carlisle?”

“She ate supper alone in her room and is still there.”

Chris forced himself to walk past Sophia's door without stopping, but Sophia must have heard his footsteps, for she flung the panel open.

“Chris, what happened?”

“I told them they were free.”

“How did they take it?”

“Listen—do you hear the drums? They're celebrating.”

“Will they stay?”

“Most of them, I hope. I suspect there are some who will join the Maroons in the mountains. Freedom is a heady experience; some might not know how to handle it.”

“You're a good man, Christian Radcliff.”

Chris stared at her. “I killed my best friend; most people would call me a murderer. Good night, Sophia.” He walked away.

Shaking her head, Sophia retreated inside her room and closed the door, starkly aware that the passing years hadn't healed Chris. Desmond's death had left him raw and hurting inside. Chris had forgiven neither himself nor her, and it seemed he never would. How could his wounds heal with her living in his home to remind him of that tragic day?

Sophia saw little of Chris during the following days. It was a busy time of year for planters, and it seemed there was always something needing his attention. As Chris had predicted, about two-thirds of the freed slaves remained to work for wages, while the remaining third left. Until replacements could be found and hired, Chris was left shorthanded.

Summer had arrived with a vengeance. There was little difference in temperature between night and day; both were hot and humid, making sleep uncomfortable. Chris said nothing more about a wedding, and Sophia didn't press him. Yet, for some unexplained reason, he refused to let her leave. He hadn't attempted to make love to her again, either. Sophia existed in a vacuum, feeling neither wanted nor loved. Paradise wasn't nearly so wonderful with no one to share it with.

Two days later, Sophia was sitting in a window seat in the parlor, reading a book, when she heard Chuba admit a visitor.

“Captain Radcliff is at the distillery,” she heard Chuba say. “I'll send someone to fetch him immediately. Please wait for him in the parlor.”

“Others will be arriving,” the visitor said. “Tell Radcliff to hurry along; it's important.”

Sophia froze. That voice! She started to flee through the door, but it was too late. Sir Oscar Rigby had already entered the room. He stopped abruptly when he saw her. The smile he gave her did not reach his eyes.

“You're still here. I did wonder, you know. I looked for a wedding announcement, but obviously Radcliff has no intention of marrying his whore.”

“What are you doing here?” Sophia asked, doing her best to ignore his insult.

“I have business with Radcliff. Have you written to your brother since you arrived in Jamaica?”