Leslie LaFoy (25 page)

Squeaking in surprise, she landed just where and how he'd intended—atop the piles of bedding and beneath him. Bearing his weight on his forearms, he looked down into widened eyes, felt the wild thrumming of her heartbeat all along the length of his body.

“This is
not
how men fight each other,” she announced, too breathless to be fully indignant.

“No, it's how men best women,” he drawled softly, smiling. “Admit defeat and I'll let you up.”

Anger flashed in the depths of her eyes. “So that I can go to my room, remove my breeches, and hand them—and my common sense—over to you?”

“Would you prefer to have me take them from you here and now?” he taunted as his own pulse raced to match the cadence of hers.

“It wouldn't be as easily accomplished as you'd like to think, sir,” she retorted, roughly pulling her hands from between them, clapping them on his shoulders, and then trying to arch up and throw him off. It was a magnificently seductive friction and his loins instantly hardened in appreciation of her effort. He eased his weight down on her just enough to still her movement, just enough to warn her of the trouble she was courting.

Her breathing ragged and quick, she touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip and met his gaze to whisper, “You aren't the first man to think that he can—”

“I'm tired of thinking,” he whispered back, leaning down to lightly brush his lips over hers. “I can't when I'm around you.”

His admission strummed over her senses, bathing her in wondrous relief. She wasn't alone in battling temptation, wasn't the only one whose control was staggering before the powerful onslaught. There was soul-deep solace in knowing that, an eternal snare in surrendering to it. She struggled to grasp the crumbling bits of her reason, to save them both from folly.

“Devon…” Her plea was lost in the slow demand of his kiss, in the gently tightening circle of his arms, the tenderness of his possession. Layer upon layer of heady sensation wrapped around her; the muscled hardness and warmth of the body pressed against hers, the quiet hunger for breath, the gentle murmur of discovery, the sun-warm scent of life, the intoxicating taste of things wild and forbidden and dangerous.

Something inside her bloomed and grew. It had no shape, no color, no taste. And although it made no sound, she felt it beckon in a low whisper across her soul. It drew her forward and inward and out, into a billowing darkness, to a place where the only reality was this man's touch and the gnawing hunger it both created and fed. Powerless to resist its siren call, she abandoned herself to it, to the provocative delight of exploring, of touching, of tasting.

Devon knew he was in trouble. But the part of him that cared wasn't in control. Sweet Christ. He ached to know the full measure of this woman, his temptress wife. She yielded to him, met his demands, and came to him, touched him, drew him to her with a gentle intensity that was more than his flesh and blood could resist.

He eased away to kiss a fiery trail down the slim column of her throat, his hand sliding beneath the linen to savor the ardent heat of her skin, to cup the fullness of her breast. She moaned softly, arching into his embrace,
his caress, twining her fingers in his hair, guiding his lips across her satin swell and toward the hardened peak.

“Lady Claire? Are you up there?”

He started, instinctively drawing back to fix the location of the voice. Halfway up the stairs, he realized with another start that jolted his already racing heart.

“Yes, Meg,” Claire called out, her voice quavering and breathless. “I'll be down in just a moment. Wait for me there, please.”

He looked down into deep blue, anxious eyes. God, he couldn't breathe. Hunger, raw and insistent, ached in every fiber of his being.
Tell Meg to go away. Make love to me, Claire. Make love to me
.

She drew a breath, her entire body shuddering at the effort. With a ragged swallow, she extracted her fingers from his hair and let her hands fall limply into the bedding. “I have work to do, Devon,” she whispered, the sound so soft that it barely reached his ears.

It arrowed, however, into his reason, piercing the fog of heedless desire. His heart skittered and ice surged into the heat of his veins. Jesus. Sweet Jesus. How close they'd been to committing madness, how mindlessly and happily he would have tumbled over the edge with her in his arms.

“Of course,” he said, rolling off her and onto his feet. He thought to offer his hand to help her rise, but before he could even extend it, she vaulted to her feet and snatched up the armload of netting. For a long moment she stood there, searching his eyes, her breasts rising and falling as she fought to breathe. He could feel the tension in her, could sense that she wanted to explain, to apologize, to promise that it would never happen again. But in the depths of her eyes he saw the same confusion that bound his own words to soul-tearing silence.

“Lady Claire? Are ye all right?”

“Fine, Meg,” she answered, taking a step back. She
shook her head, her eyes shimmering with regret, and then turned toward the stairs, adding, “I'm on my way down.”

Don't go
, the fool inside him called.
Stay with me
.

Devon clenched his teeth and watched her walk away. She was at the top of the stairs before he could make his voice work. “Claire?” She stopped, but didn't look back. “I'm not a saint. In breeches, your curves are entirely too inviting,” he said with all the control he could muster. “If you don't want my hands on them again, hide them under a dress. Preferably a very loose one with a bodice that goes all the way to your chin.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and kept her gaze firmly fixed ahead of her. It was a long moment before she replied, “If you and Ephram would be so kind as to bring the bureau down sometime today, I would appreciate it. If it's not convenient, Meg and I will manage it ourselves.”

And then she was gone, bounding down the stairs as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Devon sank down on the bureau, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him. What was he going to do about Claire? About the searing, witless desire she so effortlessly stirred in him? He couldn't send her away. He didn't have the money to ensconce her at an inn in Williamsburg or anywhere else. And even if he did, he suspected that the distance wouldn't be great enough to keep him from stupidity. England might be far enough, but he certainly didn't have the money to send her there. And he couldn't go away himself. There were crops yet to sow, fields that had to be tended.

Folding his arms across his chest, Devon absently stared at the far wall of the attic. Neither of them could leave; they were trapped together, plain and simple. And just as obvious was the fact that Claire wasn't any more able to resist temptation than he was. The odds weren't good for them being able to stand before a judge and
truthfully claim nonconsummation as grounds for annulment of their marriage.

Would having Claire as his wife, in every sense and forever, be such a bad thing? Was there a possibility that they could find common ground after the flames of passion died away? Or would they spend eternity loathing each other as his parents had and regretting that they hadn't resisted a fleeting curiosity?

With a snort, Devon rose to his feet. Maybe what he needed to do before he made any lifelong decisions was to ride over to Lytton Hall. Physical need was definitely clouding his judgment, and although Darice was a lot of things, she had always been fairly good at grounding him in that respect. Yes, that was what he needed to do. There wouldn't be time before the Lee brothers arrived, but after they left…

Devon frowned at the cringing of his conscience. Claire was his wife in name only. He hadn't promised her fidelity. He'd promised her an eventual escape. By crawling into Darice's bed, he'd be sparing Claire the possibility of being forever shackled to him. Viewed that way, throwing himself at Darice would be a noble act of self-sacrifice.

It didn't feel that way, he admitted, picking up the empty bureau drawers, but with time he'd eventually accept the rightness of it. And Claire, on the day she was able to leave Rosewind and go home, would be most appreciative of what he'd done for them.

Yes, in a couple of days he'd go see Darice and everything would be all right. His conscience twisted again and as he headed down the stairs he decided that perhaps it would be for the best if Claire never knew about Darice Lytton. He didn't want to hurt Claire any more than he wanted her forever bound to poverty and ruin. She was a good person who deserved better, who deserved to be happy.

•        •        •

H
ER SENSES STILL REELING
, Claire marshaled her composure as she joined Meg in the blue guest room. “I found some filet canopies and bed linens up in the attic,” she announced breezily as she dumped them on the dresser top. “If we use them, we won't have to worry about getting the others washed and ironed in time.”

Meg, a dust cloth in hand, tilted her head to the side and quickly looked her up and down. “I thought ye were goin' up to look for a piece or two to fill this cave.”

“And I found a beautiful bureau,” Claire replied, determined that Meg never guess what had happened on the attic floor. “Three-drawered maple. It'll match the other pieces perfectly.”

“Are ye all right, Lady Claire? Are ye not feelin' well? Yer face is flushed.”

“I'm fine,” she asserted, her pulse racing, her fragile facade crumbling under the strain of pretending. She had to escape, to be by herself, even if just for a little while so that she could settle her jangled nerves. “But I need to leave you to the beds while I go down to the kitchen to speak with Hannah about the meals.”

Meg's gaze darted in the general direction of the attic stairs and then came back to meet Claire's. “Mr. Devon's back?”

Somehow Meg suspected; Claire could feel the unspoken questions vibrating in the air between them. And Meg would know for certain if Devon came down those stairs while she was still standing there. Facing Devon again so soon would be impossible. She'd barely escaped the attic without dissolving into tears.

“Yes, he is,” Claire admitted, quickly turning and walking away. “If you should see him before I do, would you please show him where we want the bureau placed?” She didn't wait for Meg to answer. “I'll be back shortly.”

She added cowardice to the list of her other shortcomings as she raced down the stairs, through the foyer, the dining room, and the butler's pantry. It was only when she reached the back steps that she stopped to breathe and face the fullness of what had happened. Sinking down on the top step, she buried her face in her hands and quietly moaned. She knew the rules that governed women's behavior: that they were supposed to resist male advances, even those of their husbands. She also knew what men thought of women who didn't. And she hadn't. She'd seen the likely consequences of being pinned between the bedding and Devon's body, and the only protest she'd been able to muster was to whisper his name in what had amounted to an invitation. After that…

She lifted her face, tilting it up into the afternoon sunlight and trying to draw strength and resolve from its warmth. There was no denying that she was drawn to Devon, that she shamelessly enjoyed his touch. And if Devon's words could be counted as true, he was suffering the same temptations where she was concerned.

Claire closed her eyes. In two months she could be free to do with her life as she willed, free of her uncle's demands, free of anyone's control. For four years it had been the dream that had sustained her, that had made all the heartaches and fears endurable. But the hope of someday owning herself would be lost forever if she yielded to desire. She'd be Devon's wife and the mistress of Rosewind for the rest of her days. He would own her, would confine her—mind, body, and soul—to the narrow bounds of what he considered proper and right.

And she would grow to hate him for it. And herself for having traded freedom for the fleeting hope of love.

“Love,” Claire whispered caustically, shaking her head. “ ‘Fool, not to know that love endures no ties.’” She smiled weakly. “John Dryden.”

“There is no fear in love.”

Startled by the unfamiliar, unexpected voice, Claire instantly opened her eyes and sat up straight. A small African woman stood on the walk just a few feet away, a hint of gray hair visible under the edge of her snowy white mobcap. How long had she been there?

“But perfect love casteth out fear,” the woman went on. “The First Epistle of John. Chapter four, verse eighteen.” A smile touched the corners of her mouth, and her dark eyes sparkled. “You must be Mistress Claire.”

“I am,” Claire replied, rising and returning the woman's smile. “And you must be Hannah.”

The older woman nodded and then paused for a moment before saying, “Mr. Devon told me you were a bit peculiar at times. He didn't mention that you wore breeches.”

Peculiar? He'd been feeling charitable. “Only on occasion. You're not going to faint like Mother Rivard did, are you?”

Hannah chuckled. “I've never fainted in my life.”

“Neither have I.” Claire smiled, liking the woman already. “Are you going to lecture me on propriety?”

“Like Elsbeth?” She shook her head. “There are a lot of folks in this world who think being proper is enough to make up for their sins and cold hearts. I prefer good, honest people.”

“I'll try not to disappoint you.”

“Just don't disappoint Mr. Devon and I'll be content.”

The matter of Devon's expectations was one she found acutely uncomfortable. Claire deliberately changed the course of their conversation. “Devon said you wanted to discuss menus with me.”

For a long moment Hannah studied her face and said nothing. “I think,” she finally, slowly ventured, “that your greatest trouble isn't what the Lee brothers are going to eat. And I'm inclined to think that Mr.
Devon is the cause of the shadows I saw passing across your mind when you didn't know I was here.”

There was no denying it. Hannah had seen what she'd seen. “It's not so much Devon as …” She faltered, surprised by her inability to find the right words.