Island Flame (43 page)

“I’d like you to go now, if you don’t mind. I’m tired.” Despite herself a little quiver racked her voice. She glared at him glacially, hoping he hadn’t heard it.

“Get undressed,” he said, almost casually, strolling forward into the light. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his gray breeches, rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes hooded as they met hers. Cathy gaped at him disbelievingly, then shut her jaw with a decided snap.

“You’ve had your fun for the night,” she bit off, her knuckles showing white where she still clutched his coat to her. She tried stiffening away from the bedpost only to sink back against it. Without its support, she would have fallen.

“I’m not looking for fun, as you call it,” he answered evenly, his eyes never leaving her pinched face. “I want to be sure you’re all right. Now, can you undress yourself or do you want me to help you?”

Cathy stared at him furiously. He looked so tall and
invincible standing there, so cool and collected, as if the events of the night had affected him not at all. As they probably hadn’t. She was the one who had been hurt and humiliated, she reminded herself. He probably only felt relieved!

“It’s a little late for you to worry about me, isn’t it?” she spat venomously. “After all, if I’m unwell, you’re the cause!”

“Get undressed, Cathy,” he repeated brusquely, strolling over to the fire and seating himself in the chair Martha had vacated. Cathy glared at him, then snatched his coat from her shoulders in a sudden spurt of rage and threw it at him.

He caught it easily. Cathy clenched her fists
impotently, then sagged back against the bedpost. That little display of temper had completely sapped her strength. She felt light-headed, but she would rather die than have him undress her after the unforgivable way he had treated her!

Thank goodness he was no longer watching her! He had extracted a thin brown cigar from his coat pocket and was leaning toward the fire to light it on a burning ember. Smoking was a habit he had acquired since returning to Woodham, and Cathy was not sure that she liked it. It made him seem more than ever like a stranger.

Taking a deep breath, Cathy reached around to fumble with the hooks that fastened her dress in the back. Jon was sprawled in the chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him, staring abstractedly at the dancing flames as he puffed at his cigar. The smoke wafted above him, its smell oddly strong. As it floated toward Cathy, surrounding her, suffocating her, she felt her stomach give an ominous
heave. She clapped a hand to her mouth, but it was too late. She was violently sick where she stood.

When the spasm was over, Cathy became aware of Jon’s presence beside her. He reached down and caught her by her upper arms, lifting her gently from where she had collapsed to her knees. He was smiling faintly as he looked down into her woebegone face, and if Cathy had had the strength she would have clawed that superior smirk from his mouth.

“It was your damned cigar!” she choked defensively as he sat her on the edge of the bed, wiping her face carefully with a dampened towel.

“I don’t think so,” he answered, kneeling to remove her small shoes. Cathy felt too weak to sit upright. She flopped back against the mattress, her feet still dangling over the edge. Jon continued, “How much did you have to drink?”

“I’m not drunk!” Cathy protested indignantly. How dare he imply such a thing! “All I had to drink was punch.”

“Champagne punch,” Jon corrected calmly. “I saw you swilling it, but it never occurred to me.…”

“Oh, shut up!” Cathy snapped, giving vent to her outraged feelings. “Nobody gets drunk on punch!”

“You managed very nicely, my dear.” The laughter in his voice infuriated Cathy. After all he had done to her tonight, he had the gall to laugh at her! With a tremendous effort she forced herself into a sitting position again, her hand swinging in a wide arc that smacked satisfyingly against his hard cheek.

Cathy stared at him defiantly as he raised a disbelieving hand to his face. He was still kneeling at her feet, his startled eyes almost on a level with hers.

“You deserved that!” she told him decidedly, then sank back down against the mattress.

“Deserved or not, you’d be well-advised not to repeat it,” he drawled after a moment’s silence. “Next time, you might be repaid in kind.”

“Bully!” Cathy murmured resentfully, closing her eyes tightly as the ceiling whirled around above her. She opened them again to find Jon towering over her. As she blinked at him his face came closer, swimming into focus.

“Go away!” she hissed, and was rewarded with a reluctant smile.

“In a few minutes,” he promised gravely, his hands gentle on her shoulders as he turned her over onto her stomach. Cathy could feel him deftly unfastening the hooks at the back of her gown. He tugged it down over her body, tossing it aside, then began to struggle with the lacing of her stays. The strings had apparently worked themselves into a knot. Cathy heard his muttered “Damn!” as he tried to undo it. Succeeding at last, he deftly loosened her stays, pulling them from beneath her.

“I feel sick,” she moaned suddenly as her stomach twitched again warningly.

“I know you do.” His voice was soothing, his hands caressing as they lingered briefly against her thighs before sliding her stockings and garters down her legs. “When you’re undressed, I’ll bring you something that will make you feel better.”

“Like strychnine?” The question was pure bravado, and Jon ignored its provocation. He turned her over onto her back, and Cathy was too weak to even want to resist him. She lay limply on the bed, her eyes closed as he pulled her petticoats away. She was left in her nearly transparent
chemise and her ruined pantalets. Jon pulled the chemise over her head with a swift movement, then untied the ribbon waistband of her pantalets with deliberate care and slid them down her legs. His hands felt warm against the nape of her neck as he removed first her necklace, then her earbobs, and finally the ornament in her hair. Cathy was drifting off into a troubled sleep when she felt a cool wetness slide across her belly and down over her soft thighs.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, her eyes popping open. Jon continued to sponge her body with a damp cloth, washing her with an intimacy that made her blush furiously.

“You need a bath,” he said, glancing up at her briefly, his look almost tender. He drew the cloth one final time between her legs then threw it aside. She was left lying naked on the bed, her feet dangling ridiculously over the side as he turned away and strode across the room to the armoire.

“Where are you going?” she asked before she could catch herself, feeling strangely bereft. Jon slanted a wry look at her over his shoulder, his hands busy pawing through the stacks of her undergarments.

“I presume you want to sleep in a nightdress?”

“Oh,” Cathy murmured, then nodded. Her earlier anger with him was fading, along with her memory of its cause. The crazy spinning of her head was banishing all before it.

“You hurt me,” she accused, vaguely remembering a hard, thrusting pain with him as its author.

Jon found what he was looking for and turned back toward the bed, a wisp of silk dangling from one hand.

“You hurt me back,” he reminded her, one hand moving
to lightly touch the cheek she had slapped. “That makes us even.”

This seemed reasonable to Cathy, who was getting dizzier by the minute. She submitted docilely as he pulled her to her feet, leaning heavily against the hard wall of his chest while he dropped the nightgown over her head. The musky man-smell of him was oddly pleasant. Cathy burrowed her face against the cool silk of his shirt as he twitched the sleeping garment into place.

“Into bed with you, temptress,” she heard him mutter, his voice husky. His arms slid around her and he was lifting her, then depositing her all too quickly on the soft mattress, this time up near the headboard in a proper sleeping position. Her blue eyes blinked at him reproachfully as he pulled the covers neatly under her chin.

“My head hurts,” she said as if it was somehow his fault. He smiled down at her, his face suddenly charming.

“I’ll fix it,” he promised, running a teasing finger down her small, straight nose. “I’ll have to get you drunk more often, minx. You’re irresistible.”

Before Cathy could do more than frown at him sleepily he was gone, only to return a few moments later with a brandy snifter full of some noxious looking concoction.

“Drink this.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding it out to her.

Cathy struggled up on her elbows. Even that slight movement made her head spin.

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“Hair of the dog, my love, with a slight addition. Drink it.”

His arm came around her back, holding her upright,
and he thrust the glass against her lips. Cathy had perforce to swallow. It was vile, and she gagged. But when her stomach had subsided and she was lying once more against her pillows she had to admit that she did feel better. She seemed to be floating, her body weightless, her mind soaring free. The mattress creaked and then sprang upward as Jon rose lithely to his feet.

“Don’t leave me,” Cathy murmured, her eyes barely opening as she clutched at his hand. “Please.”

“I won’t.”

“Martha would be so disappointed.…” The words trailed off, and her long eyelashes fluttered down against her pale cheeks. Jon grimaced. Despite his firmest resolutions, the chit could twist him around her finger with ludicrous ease. He wandered over to the fireplace and stood staring blindly down into the flames, musing wryly on the follies of love-smitten men.

The pop of an exploding ember woke Cathy some two hours later. The room was dark and peopled with mysterious shadows. Cathy blinked groggily, pushing herself up on one elbow to peer around the room. The faint odor of cigar smoke lingered in the air, reminding her irresistibly of her husband. The events of the night were not very clear in her mind, but she could vaguely recall him undressing her gently, his dark voice calling her his love. His love. A smile curled her mouth.

The bright orange glow of a cigar tip caught her attention. She stared at it, just barely able to make out the long, lean shadow that sprawled behind it in the chair before the fire.

“Jon?” she breathed, knowing it could be no one else. The cigar was flipped into the fire, and the dark figure got
to its feet and crossed toward the bed. Cathy sank back down, pleased. It was, indeed, Jon.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly, his face in shadow as he leaned over her.

“Lonely.” Cathy sighed the word, feeling no need to hide her love for him any longer, now that he had admitted his. His love. His love. The words echoed like a benediction in her brain.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked after a long moment, his voice strangely guarded. Cathy wished she could see his expression, but the room was too dark. Ah, well, there would be tomorrow—all their tomorrows—to talk of love. Right now she wanted more tangible proof.

“I’m cold, too,” she whispered demurely, her hand stealing out from beneath the quilts to run tentatively up his thigh. “Won’t you warm me up?”

“Ah, God, Cathy, you’re still drunk,” he groaned. Cathy smiled in the darkness. Yes, she was drunk. Drunk on the heady nectar of his love. Her hand moved higher, her fingers running teasingly along the hard bulge in his breeches. He started to pull back, then stopped. A low growl sounded deep in his throat and his hand came down to cover hers, pressing her fingers against him.

“I want you.” His voice sounded strangled. Cathy’s fingers curled against the soft velvet, kneading, probing. She touched the hard roundness of a button, freeing first it, then its fellow. Her cool little fingers slid inside to delicately stroke his hot flesh.

“Ah, God,” he groaned, coming down beside her on the bed. His arms went around her and he strained her body against his hard length. The thick quilts were between them and Jon kicked them aside impatiently, his
mouth twisting across hers with searing need. Cathy twined her own arms tightly around his neck, returning his kiss with abandon, sobbing endearments against his mouth. She could feel the tremors that racked his corded limbs as they pressed her to him.

Through the thin silk of her nightdress, Jon’s fingers burned on her breasts and thighs and belly. Cathy writhed under his caresses, thrilling to his touch. Her own hands came away from his neck to tug at his shirt. The buttons popped, allowing her access to his furred, muscular chest. She pulled her mouth away from his, pressing wanton kisses on his body. His breath rattled in his throat as though he was dying.

Jon sat up suddenly, and Cathy could have screamed at the removal of his warm flesh.

“Darling?” she questioned huskily, moving to kneel behind him where he sat on the edge of the bed, her soft arms sliding around his waist.

“I have to take off my damned boots,” he gritted, tugging at the offending footgear.

Cathy chuckled softly, the sound seductive. She pressed her breasts tightly against the hard muscles of his back, and he groaned, his hand leaving what he was doing to pull her head around for a brief, burning kiss. Then, dropping his boots to the floor one at a time, he stood up, stripping off his clothes with hands that shook. Cathy stayed where she was, kneeling on the edge of the bed, watching him boldly. In the flickering firelight his flesh looked orangey-bronze, as hard and pagan as any savage’s. Cathy admired the bulging muscles of his arms and thighs through half-closed lids, reveling in his strength. When at last he was naked, her eyes swept him
with a long, desirous look that made him catch his breath. With every pore of her body she was aware of his maleness and his passion.

“Wanton,” he murmured, coming to her and pulling her nightgown over her head with a swift movement, leaving her as naked as he. She pressed against him uninhibitedly, loving the rasp of his body hair against her soft breasts, the heat and hardness of him. He bore her backward, his knee parting her thighs as they came to rest on the softness of the mattress.

When he possessed her, Cathy felt throbbing, burning ecstasy. She arched against him, grinding her softness to his strength, sobbing her need against his mouth. He was gasping, his heart beating so hard that it sounded like a drum being pounded between them. He took her to the edge of rapture once, and then again. When at last he was still, his mouth pressed warmly against the curve of her neck and his hand gently stroking her hair, she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven. Her fingers came up to touch his mouth wonderingly, and then before she could tell him of her joy she fell asleep.