Forbidden Fire (13 page)

But even as she spoke, her lips were still burning where his had touched them, and she shook with tremors from the intimacy they had shared. She hated him, and yet she longed to touch his face. She wanted to feel the contours of that hard, angry jaw. She wanted to soothe the anger away and see him smile with tenderness.

His voice thundered with anger. “You'll have your privacy when you've answered all my questions, Marissa, damn you!”

“You'll leave now!” she snapped. And then dizziness burst within her mind just as he pulled her into a hard embrace. She tried valiantly to straighten and free herself, but she fell into his arms. Her anger drained from her suddenly. Her eyes, wide and uncertain, stared into his. “Ian, please, I—”

“Ah, yes, you are falling again!” he taunted. “Poor sweet innocent! It is the champagne. You need nothing more than to be left alone. Out of the clutches of your cruel guardian—and husband.”

She looped her arms around his neck, protesting. “Truly. It is the champagne. I should not have drunk so freely.”

“That damnable champagne is there whenever you want it, Marissa. You are not so inebriated as to act out whatever role you choose to play. I want the truth.”

“What truth?” she cried out. She was within his arms, held there easily as he stared at her. She returned his gaze, fascinated by the color of his eyes, by the rugged planes and angles of his face. She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and felt a sizzling tremor streak through her. She wanted to taste his kiss again. It was amazing, for she resented him, she could not care for him, and yet she did. “Ian,” she murmured, and no other word would leave her lips.

Suddenly he was smiling, and some of his anger drained away.

“Perhaps I shall just discover the truth for myself,” he said.

The truth about her, he thought. There was one way to know if she had entertained a lover before. And with the blood seeming to shimmer in his veins and the pounding in his head, he knew that discovering more about her was suddenly necessary to him. He had never wanted a woman more. “If I'll not have something from you in words this night, then by God, lady, perhaps I will have a wife! My manners are already considered rude, and as you claim the champagne, sweet, so can I claim the brandy!”

He unerringly found the route to the bedroom, long strides bringing them into the darkened room. She knew where they traveled. Winds created by his impetus stirred over her face, and she was vaguely aware of what she was doing. It was insane. So were the fires that stirred within her body and soul. She longed to taste his lips again, to know again the fever of his arms.

And more.

“You really must put me down,” she told him.

“I intend to,” he promised.

They entered the darkened bedroom, and he laid her down upon the bed, then sat beside her as glimmers of moonlight played in the room. She felt her breath coming quickly, but she did not close her eyes. She sought his in the strange surreal light, and found he was looking at her hair.

It was splayed upon the pillow in the moonlight, shimmering like a thousand fires. His fingers moved quickly within it, removing the few pins she had used to secure it from her face. And when it stretched in burning, golden cascades around them, he lowered his face to hers, catching her chin softly between his two hands. “Earth and fire,” he whispered softly. “Passion, tension, spirit. God forgive me, for I'll not forgive myself.”

His words stirred a great unease within her soul, but his kiss quickly wiped that unease away. In the darkness it was suddenly magic. He tasted the rim of her mouth, and plunged and delved deeply within it. He whispered against her throat, against the lobe of her ear.

And then his hands were moving expertly over the tiny pearl buttons of her elegant blouse. She barely felt the sheath of silk whisper against her flesh as it was whisked away.

His kiss burned a sweetly forbidden fire against the length of her throat, delicately, erotically pausing at the point where her pulse beat wildly.

This was what a woman did when she was madly in love, Marissa thought vaguely. Lose all sense and reason, and hunger for a man. She was not in love. She was wary, as an intelligent lamb might be of an experienced, sometimes world-weary wolf …

No, she was not in love. But she was fascinated, as she had always been fascinated by him. Angry and fascinated. Careful and suspicious and fascinated. Furious and fascinated.

Taunted and seduced and fascinated …

Taken in by the spell of his gaze upon her, by his very touch. The subtle, masculine scent of him was stirring fires and hungers within her soul. She was fascinated by the gentle, callused brush of his fingers, by the strength within them, by the power of his hands. Stirred and tempted and challenged by the dark lock of hair that fell over his forehead in the mystic near darkness of the room. She was aware of what she did, of where they were, of where this new intimacy would take them. And it was wrong.

But it was also right. Something had been awakened within her. Something secret and beautiful, something of the dreams that Mary had spun, the dreams in which she had never believed. In the shadows, in the night, there was something beautiful and exciting. Something growing that she could not deny. She wanted to hold him, and hold him tight, and pretend that he did love her, to know just a taste of an emotion so rich and fine.

But this was not a dream! She struggled to remember that, but she felt drugged. She slipped into danger, and she saw the flames, yet resisting the sear of the fire seemed impossible. She had to stop him. She had to remind him that theirs was not the customary marriage.

That he did not want her …

She inhaled on a sweet shudder as his fingertips moved over her breast, untying the silken ribbons of her chemise, releasing the ties of her corset. She felt her breasts spill free of the restraint and the burning pressure of his lips low against the valley between them. She had let this go too far, oh, way too far. No, she had not let it, she had encouraged it, she had brought him here, to her.

Ian felt the first protest on her lips when he kissed her again, but he thought it more of her taunting, more of her game. He didn't understand what core of anger had burned so brightly within him, except that she had tricked him, she had lied, and he was suddenly damned sure that she had lied about more.

There
was
a lover. She had married Ian, perhaps planning all the while to turn to her lover. Perhaps to bring him with her across the ocean.

And he wondered what it mattered, there was so little that he could give her. He shouldn't be so angry, he should understand. He couldn't love her; he couldn't give her tenderness; he didn't even want to be near her. She was his wife, not a dance-hall girl.

But there was more to it than that. At least this night there was. There was that never-ending challenge in her beautiful green eyes, and there was the firelight that played within her hair. There was the impudence in her voice, the spirit, the anger, the laughter. The tilt of her chin. And now … the softness of her skin, the sweet taste of the champagne upon her lips, the subtle scent of her perfume.

Yes, the scent of her perfume.

He groaned aloud, taking her breast into the palm of his hand, gently covering the shadow-haunted peak with his mouth, curling his tongue over the nipple as his palm caressed the fullness of the mound. Again he felt her shudder, felt the faint murmurings of protest upon her lips. But even as she murmured, a fire of desire and longing stronger than her words, stronger than his own denial, swept raggedly through him. And again he kissed her lips, kissed them hungrily, angrily, then tenderly, bathing away any little hurt he might have inflicted with the stroke of his tongue.

He moved his fingers along the smooth silk of her stocking from her ankle to the lace of her drawers just above the knee, and there his fingers found the sleek softness of her bare thighs beneath the fabric. He teased her flesh, feeling her body move against his. And he felt again the protests bubbling to her lips, and silenced them with his tongue. He was not unaccustomed to women's finery, and easily found the ties to loosen the lace, and in seconds he had stripped the garment from her.

Alive with the fire of desire, he paid little heed to any other barriers between them. He seared her flesh with the hungry force of his kiss as he briefly adjusted his own clothing, then moved his weight against her body, between her thighs. She had ceased to protest, but trembled incredibly in his hold. Her pulse beat frantically at her throat when he touched it with his tongue. And when he paused, stroking her cheek to look down upon her, her eyes were emeralds, brilliant, stunning against the darkness, both dazzling and dazed. Her lips were parted softly, damp with his kiss, and her hair, that majestic hair, was still splayed in fire and splendor across the pillow. Her throat was long and white and elegant, and her breasts, bared and yet framed in lace and silk, were glorious, rouge peaked in the near darkness, shadowed, and still as tempting as original sin. Her eyes met his with some sudden and strange recognition, and she suddenly inhaled and cried out. “Ian, I did not intend—”

He did not know what she intended—he knew only that he did not intend to let her speak. There was a mystique in the darkness. He had ceased to think or reason or remember. He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her to his will as he forcefully kissed away her words.

And as his tongue invaded her mouth, he found the sweet petals of her sex, teasing first with the thrust of his desire, then plunging hard with the spiraling depths of his need. Then he stopped, stunned, waiting.

Not even his kiss could drown out her cry.

Tears stung Marissa's eyes, and she bit hard on her lip against the sudden pain.

Ian had grown still, dead still.

The magic of the night had slipped away, the beauty of the shadows, of the dreams within the room. Suddenly he was very real, and flesh and blood, a man, and not a dream of love. Marissa realized that she had brought him here, that she had been seduced, perhaps, but that she had seduced in turn. And his hand lay against her face, his thumb moving over her cheek.

And feeling the dampness of the tear that lay against her flesh.

“Marissa!” She felt the warmth of his whisper there, and she wouldn't allow him compassion or pity, not now.

“Dear God, don't!” she cried.

And he grew still again, but the pad of his thumb moved gently over her face, smoothing away the dampness. Then his lips touched where his thumb had been, ever gentle. And she longed to scream, to cry out, to toss him from her.

But he did not leave her. He kissed her again and again. Finding her brows, her throat, her lips, her earlobe, her lips again.

And then he moved.

Slowly, so slowly, she was barely aware of his thrust at first.

And she was keenly, achingly aware, because slowly, so slowly, the magic was evoked once again.

She didn't know when she fell within the twilight swirl, not when she felt the budding excitement begin anew. It eased the burning at the apex of her thighs, yet created fire all over again. It came like lava, lustrous, sleek, sweet, moving through her limbs. It stretched out like lightning from the center of her being, and it warmed her, and returned again to that center, making her rise ever higher with the growing wonder of sensation.

And then the softness was gone, the slowness of his motion cast away. He moved like lightning, hard, fast, demanding. His arms were tight around her, and she realized that sounds were escaping her again, no longer protests, but exhalations and sweet, sweet moans. And he urged her to rise against him, and she did, arching to meet his every thrust, twisting, undulating, thinking that she could bear no more, take no more … yet ever reaching for the stars.

And then it seemed that those stars exploded above her and around her. The darkness was shattered with light, and then the light was plunged into darkness. She felt him, hard and powerful, driving deeply into her and shuddering as a hot lava seemed to fill her again. Tremors had seized her, too. Little tremors, bringing again the wonder, the stars, the darkness and the light. And when they left her at last, she was shivering.

It was cold, for he had lifted his weight away. And even as the magic she had barely glimpsed began to fade from her grasp, she realized that he was leaning upon an elbow, staring at her.

And the darkness was no cover against the probe of his eyes. She was in complete dishabille; he still wore his elegant jacket.

She turned aside, groping blindly for the covers, swept into a tempest of emotion. She wanted to hate him, but she knew that she did not. And that was a bitter thought, for she felt again the nagging pain of what she had done, what they had done, and it tore at her heart.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

His voice was a rasp. He seemed so angry still. He seemed angry! It was surely her place.

“Tell you what?” she snapped.

“I assumed—”

“You assumed!”

His hand touched her shoulder, and she wished that she dared to turn, to look into his eyes. But she lay there rigidly, her shoulders tense.

“I'm sorry,” he said simply.

“Please, don't be.”

An impatient oath escaped him. “Marissa, I did not force you—”

“No!” she cried, flinging back the covers, then swearing as she tried to rise and tripped over the shambles of her clothing. “You did not force me.”

He rose quickly, which did not please her, for he appeared so respectable. The disarray of his hair, that dark lock lying over his forehead, was the only sign of all that had passed between them. He was coming around the bed to her, she realized. She wrenched the cover from the bed and swept it regally around herself like a cape. And she backed away, trying to escape him, but he quickly caught up with her, taking her arm.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm leaving—”