Forbidden Fire (14 page)

“It's your room, you little fool.”

“But—” She tried to break free from him. He released her, much to her surprise. Off balance, she fell against the wall.

And she was in his arms once again. And then she saw his eyes, blue, burning into hers. “Damn you!” he said softly. “It's the champagne, right?”

“Oh! Leave me alone!”

“I will.”

He laid her upon the bed, but made no move to join her again. “Go to sleep,” he told her harshly.

“Sleep! I cannot sleep—”

“You wanted to be alone. I'm leaving you alone. Cherish the privacy, my love. And sleep!” he snapped.

“You must leave—”

“Come the daylight, I am leaving. On a ship across the ocean, remember?”

“With any luck, you will be swallowed within it!” she hissed, trembling.

He paused. “Ah, but luck does not seem to be with you lately, does it my love?” He did not seem to expect an answer. He turned on his heel and left the room.

For long moments she lay there, numb.

Then Marissa felt again the burning that would not ease completely from her body. She closed her eyes, and remembered his kiss, his touch.

And it seemed that her flesh burned everywhere as she remembered the sweetness that had invaded her, the ecstasy. The sounds that had escaped her, the way they had been. She was angry with herself, unable to believe what she had done with her eyes wide open.

I tried to protest! she told herself.

But she had not. Not really. Perhaps she could not have gotten him to leave her rooms, but she could have stopped him from this.

It was the champagne …

No, she had clung to the champagne. It had been an excuse, and she could not deny it.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw at his face. She wanted so badly to hate him. And then she realized that her cheeks were damp again, that she had been crying.

And she had been crying because she did not hate him at all.

She craved things she had never imagined wanting before.

A home. A husband, a real husband. Happiness.

And more.

She wanted love.

Chapter Seven

I
an strode to the parlor of the suite and poured himself a generous portion of brandy. The heat of the liquor burned his throat and seemed to shudder its way through him, and still he felt at a loss. He sank down on the settee, studied his glass and swore softly to the night.

What the hell had he done?

Well, you wanted to know if she was lying, he reminded himself. You wanted the truth about the lover the squire had said would destroy her life.

And while she might have lied about half a dozen other things, she had definitely never bedded with the boy.

And that was what you wanted to know, wasn't it? he asked himself mockingly.

And now he knew. Now he had touched and tasted and entered into the realms he had forbidden himself. She had goaded him into it, damn her. Damn her a thousand times over.

His fingers constricted so tightly around his empty brandy glass that it shattered within his hand. Absently he began to pick up the pieces, scarcely aware that he had cut himself, that his palm was bloody.

He dropped the pieces of glass on the table and stared at his hand. Then he swore suddenly, feeling the ragged pain that tore at his heart.

He had betrayed Diana, and he had betrayed himself.

Damn the girl. She had goaded him.

But he couldn't really blame her, he realized, closing his eyes against the headache that was beginning to pound at the base of his skull.

No, he couldn't blame her.

He had breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume, he had touched the softness of her flesh. And he had fallen into the green fire of her eyes, and there had been only himself to blame. He had wanted her.

She was his wife, he reminded himself. And she had given him what he so rarely found these days. Moments of forgetfulness. More. She had poured over him like a gentle balm, and she had given him a taste of fire. She had eased him in a way that he could not remember being eased. They had made love in a tempest, and the tempest had been good and sweet.

There could even be peace between them.

He swore violently, raking his hair as he came to his feet. No, there could be nothing between them. Nothing at all. Tonight was a mistake that would not happen again.

He heard a soft rustling and rose quickly, turning toward the bedroom door.

Marissa was there. She had changed to a very prim and concealing nightdress, white cotton with blue flowers and a high laced Chinese collar. She seemed composed, and he almost smiled, for it seemed that whatever happened, she held her chin high. Her eyes mirrored the fire in her hair. He swallowed, feeling his fingers clench into fists at his sides, the whole of him constrict with tension. She was very beautiful, willful but proud, and he realized that he admired her. A curious tenderness tempered his rage. Perhaps the anger would not be so great if she did not elicit such a staggering desire. In all men, he imagined, not just himself.

But he had misjudged her; he knew that now.

Words hovered on her lips as she met his eyes, then her gaze lowered. A frown puckered her brow, and she seemed to have forgotten what she had intended to say.

“Your hand!” she exclaimed.

He looked and saw that tiny drops of blood were falling from his clenched fist onto the elegant Persian carpet beneath his feet.

He lifted his hand against his chest. “It's nothing.”

But she walked to him and took his hand. Her touch was electric, and he nearly wrenched his hand from her grasp.

Why the hell wasn't she angry with him? Screaming again that he had to get out?

She had been angry, he realized. Furious. Until she had seen the blood. Then it seemed as if some instinct of caring had set in. What a complex creature she was! Cold as ice, hard as nails when she was determined to have her way. Soft at times, capable of laughter.

And still, though he knew her innocent now of certain things, he was still convinced that she was hiding something from him. Every once in a while the emerald fire would leave her gaze, and he would know that she was afraid of some discovery.

But now her gaze was innocent. There was no anger in it, no fear, and for once, no defensive challenge. Her eyes were wide as they touched his, wide and surprised.

“My God, you've really cut it quite severely,” she murmured.

“It's nothing,” he said curtly, but she had already headed for the bedroom, only to return with a white swatch of bandage and a pharmacist's bottle.

“You might need stitches,” she said. He stared at her blankly. “Will you give me your hand, please?”

“I don't need—”

“It will sting, but not that badly,” she said. “Give me your hand. Do you want an infection in it? A fever?”

He gritted his teeth and stuck out his hand. She opened his fingers, surveying the cut.

“If you're so anxious for me to sink to the bottom of the ocean, why not choose a deadly infection instead?” he asked wryly.

“Too slow, and not nearly dramatic enough,” she returned quickly. She dabbed at the cut delicately.

“Not true at all. I could die slowly and painfully, and at the last moment, you could rush to my bedside, hold my hand and be a virtuous, loving wife for all to see.”

“Um … but I should have to come to America for that. If you disappear to the bottom of the sea, I won't have to leave at all.”

“And the money will be all yours.”

She looked up at him, startled. “If you—if you were to pass away—my inheritance would fall to me?”

He smiled slowly and leaned against the settee, watching her. “Planning my demise?”

“Maybe.” She liberally applied the red stuff, and caught off guard, he let out a gruff oath. “Oh, come!” she cried. “Children are painted day and night with this medicine, and they do not protest.”

“Really? I think that you are planning my demise.”

“Um. Death by iodine solution.” She deftly wound the white bandage around his hand, tucking it in neatly. He stared at his hand, somewhat surprised that she had learned to tend to minor injuries so competently and swiftly in the secure world of her father's manor. He looked from his hand to her face, and their eyes met. And her cheeks were suddenly flooded with red, reminding him that it had been only minutes since they had met upon the most intimate level possible.

Marissa leaped to her feet and Ian realized that their thoughts had traveled like paths. He was startled by the rise of heat that swept through him when he recalled her touch. Thoughts came unbidden to his mind. Sweet carnal thoughts of the volatile pleasure she had created, though she knew very little. Thoughts of her softness and her beauty. Of mist and shadows and forgetfulness. Given time, given tenderness, she could be a lover like no other with her firebrand hair a tangle to entwine them …

No. He tightened his jaw against the heat and the anger and the pain that knotted and twisted inside him. He stood also, and she backed away, and he smiled, glad that she had done so. Things were becoming too easy between them. Laughter had come too easily. And there had been a curious closeness between them when she had tended his hand. He didn't want it; he had to break it.

“Marissa, I apologize for this night. My American manners were truly faulty. But you needn't fear. Such an evening will never occur again.”

Something flickered in her eyes, but other than that, her expression did not alter. She scarcely seemed to breathe. “Marissa, did you hear me? I said that I was sorry.”

“I heard you.”

“Well?”

“What does it matter? The harm is done.”

He exhaled impatiently. “I'm telling you that—”

“I don't care what you're telling me. It doesn't matter. Weren't you leaving?”

“I had left you alone, my love. You followed me out here.”

“I wanted to see that you were gone.”

“Well, I'm not.” He was anxious to leave. Why did she bring out everything perverse in him? “It's nearly morning now. I might as well wait for the day.”

“You can't stay here!” she protested.

He arched a single brow in challenge. Her eyes narrowed. They both knew she hadn't the strength to throw him out.

She circled behind him. He heard her voice at his back, innocent, soft. “Is it true, Mr. Tremayne, that if you do sink to the bottom of the ocean—or die that long and painful death of infection—that my inheritance falls straight to me?”

A smile curved his lips. “So I believe.” He turned quickly, catching her hand. “Would you add murder to your other sins, my love?”

She snatched her hand away. “Surely, never, sir! But then again, you do not know me well—”

“Well enough,” he interrupted smoothly, and was rewarded with a slight coloring in her cheeks again.

“You'll have to wonder, won't you?” she said sweetly.

“My eye will ever be upon you,” he promised pleasantly enough.

Her lashes lowered demurely. “I'm sure that will be entirely unnecessary. I shall pray for divine retribution instead.”

“Ah, but I am truly curious. Which of us is it that the divinity might bring retribution against?” he queried softly.

Again her cheeks colored softly. “Perhaps we both need to thank the divinity that it will be quite some time before we meet again.” She turned regally and headed for the bedroom.

Thank God, indeed, he thought, wincing as tension seized him. He knotted his fingers into fists again, bringing a fresh wave of pain to his hand. She was too adept at whatever game she played.

And too damned superior. He had expected tears and fierce repercussions. He had meant to remind her brutally that it had been as much her fault as his own.

But she had never implied that it had been anything other than something they had both created. She had kept her dignity beautifully.

“Don't think, Marissa, of changing any of the plans I have made for you. You will arrive via the transportation I have arranged, on the proper date.”

She paused and looked at him, surprised. “I hadn't intended to change anything. I will arrive just as you have commanded.”

“Ah, yes, I imagine that you must. You'll be wanting your allowance.”

“Yes.”

“What a pity! The sacrifices you must make for money!”

She shrugged, and something about the way she stood ignited his anger and his passion. The challenge was alive in her eyes, just as the fire burned in her hair. “I had nearly decided that you were not so crude and terrible a man.”

He found himself walking swiftly toward her and taking her by the shoulders. He wanted to shake her. Fighting for control, he realized that he wanted to do much more than shake her, that he wanted to drag her into his arms again, taste her lips, force his way to her very soul.

He did not shake her; he defied the violence within himself. He merely held her, his eyes dark and narrowing. “Don't deceive yourself, my love. I am very crude, and terrible. Don't ever deceive yourself otherwise!”

She did not flinch, but returned his stare, her head, as always, high, her eyes dazzling, moist, as if there might have been a hint of tears within them.

No, she would not cry.

He released her, fighting the urge to shove her from him. He turned and strode angrily toward the door, but once there, he paused. He did not turn to her.

“I will meet your train when it arrives, my love. See that you are on it.”

He flung open the door and strode out.

And he wandered into the depths of the London fog, wondering just what web it was that she could spin that could evoke such a tempest of emotion within a man.

He walked in the fog to forget.

But when he stripped down in his own room for what remained of the night, he was haunted with dreams.

Dreams of Diana.

But Diana's face faded away, and new dreams came to haunt him. Dreams in which he held her—Marissa—and met her emerald gaze. Touched her naked flesh.