More Than You Know (13 page)

She could not look down at herself and see where he was going to touch her next. Eyes opened or closed, Claire had only the anticipation of his touch to guide her. His hands on her breasts, at her throat, at the small of her back, this was expected. She accepted his mouth on her forehead, at her ear, and again slanting across hers. It was only when she was being lowered to the floor that she felt a moment's panic.

He whispered against her mouth,
"Shhhh."

It should not be so easy for him, Claire thought. But she did not think it for long. Tension dissolved as he laid her back. She felt his face just above hers, and she was the one who lifted her mouth this time.

The kiss was hard and deep and hungry. He did not cradle her head as much as restrain her. His fingers were threaded in her thick hair, and the pads of his thumbs pressed against her temples. His mouth moved over hers, and on the next foray his tongue pushed past her teeth and thrust deeply alongside hers. Even though she did not resist him, it became less of a kiss and more of a battle, and when Rand lifted his head, Claire's fingers came up to press against the open wound of her mouth.

She felt the length of Rand's body shifting. His leg nudged hers. His arms moved lower and his fingers disentangled themselves from her hair. He kissed her throat and she felt him draw in a deep breath, absorbing the fragrance of her skin and hair. Claire's fingers still lay across her lips, and they muffled her small, surprised cry when Rand's mouth closed over her breast. He took the turgid nipple between his teeth, worried it gently, then flicked it with the tip of his tongue. The arching of Claire's body invited him to do it again. This time he captured her with the hot suck of his mouth.

She twisted, but not far, and with no intent to escape. He captured her wrists anyway and held them flat against the floor on either side of her head. He kissed her again, softly at first, as if he could oppose the forces that kept him tautly strung at her side, then harder, desperately, as though surrendering to them was against his will.

Claire took a long draught of air when he released her mouth and expelled it sharply as he claimed her other breast. The edge of his tongue was hot and damp. He drew it across her skin slowly, raising awareness of where he had been but not of where he was going.

His knee raised the hem of her gown. Petticoats were lifted above her ankles and then above her calves. Her skirt bunched around her thighs, and the space between her legs widened. He seemed to move across her without exerting any pressure or weight. He was able to make her raise her knees without offering direction or encouragement, and when he released her wrists her arms did not come up to ward him off or cover herself.

He removed her corset and lowered her bodice and chemise to her waist. Her breasts and midriff were almost translucent. He kissed the flat plane of her abdomen and felt her skin retract slightly under the pressure of his mouth.

Claire felt a tightening in her chest as Rand's mouth and hands moved across her flesh. She was hot and cold at once, and between her thighs she was damp. His hands moved with rough impatience, yet his mouth was tender. She had no fear of what was being done to her, only that she was not returning the full measure that he expected. It would be easier if he expected nothing.

Claire's hips lifted as her drawers were dragged over her thighs and her skirt was pushed higher. She closed her eyes for the first time since Rand had lowered her to the floor. She had no time to think why it would be that she saw herself more clearly now; she only knew that it was so. It was as if a mirror had been raised above their tangled bodies.

The abandonment of her posture both alarmed and aroused her. She saw one arm flung wide and the other curving near her head. Her hair fanned away from her face like a dark penumbra. One finger twisted in the disarray but with no attempt to smooth it. It was a beckoning gesture, she thought. That was her hand, her hair, and she was stroking herself, inviting Rand to touch her in just that same way.

Her complexion was pale, tinted by the blue-silver of moonlight. A band of shadow covered her eyes, but her mouth was clearly visible and it was damp and parted. The slender stem of her neck was arched. Rand's head lay between her breasts, and what she felt as his lips moved lower, she also saw in her mind's eye.

She heard herself cry out softly and saw her body lift. Rand's fingers were dragged lightly across her thighs before they dipped between her parted legs. Her head fell to one side as he stroked her, first with his finger, then with his tongue. His copper hair was darkened by moon shadow to the color of rust. Claire watched her knees being raised and bent until the backs of them rested on Rand's shoulders. Her slim calves lay across his back.

She could be anyone, she reminded herself. But it was difficult to think so when it was happening to her.

Claire's fingers curled and her open palms became fists. Liquid heat traveled the same course as her blood, and she felt it pool around her heart and between her thighs. It had weight, and it sat heavily on her as the pressure built in both places. A sound passed her throat, something incoherent, and she wondered what she wanted to say. She wondered if it mattered to him.

Her legs fell to the side as he lifted his head then raised himself over her. There was a pause and she moved restlessly, not recognizing the sound of Rand fumbling with his clothes for what it was. He took her wrist and drew her hand toward him. He pressed his thumb against her pulse to open her fingers. When they closed again, they closed around the hot, hard length of his penis. It filled her hand.

She heard his soft groan near her ear, then felt his lips on hers. She thought she tried to speak, but she couldn't be certain. The voice she heard didn't sound like hers. The things it said she wasn't sure she wanted to say.

"No!” The cry was thin and reedy. It should have been a robust refusal but it vibrated with so much fear that it was robbed of strength. “Don't touch me. Please. I'm going to be sick."

In one swift motion Rand pushed himself away from Claire and lurched to his feet. He repaired what was necessary but took no time to close his jacket or tuck in his shirt. Blood still pounded in his temples, and it was like having the roar of the ocean in his ears. He shook his head to clear it and spoke tersely to Claire. “Stay here."

Claire felt him step around her and heard him cross to the gazebo stairs in two heavy strides. He leaped over the steps and landed with a soft thud on the grass. He was running in the direction of the other voice, the one that wasn't hers. He was running to Bria.

As Claire sat up she heard Bria's cry again. This time there was a rawness to it that spoke of pain. Claire felt a slight tremor in her hands as she pushed her petticoats and skirt over her knees. She yanked at her chemise and bodice and covered her breasts. On her hands and knees she swept the floor for the discarded corset and drawers. Tears stung her eyes but didn't fall. Her own humiliation warred with her fear for Bria.

Crouching low, Claire slipped into her drawers. The corset she took to the river side of the gazebo and flung it as hard as she could. It made a satisfying splash in the water.

It was difficult to traverse the gently rolling landscape from the gazebo to the path without her cane or a companion. Claire relied on sounds from the river to her right and the raised voices directly ahead.

Rand found his sister backed against the thick trunk of a cottonwood. At either side her fingernails dipped into the furrowed bark. She held on to it with the tenacity of a treed cat.

Dr. Stuart was standing a good ten feet from her, his hands raised in the air, palms extended out. It was not so much a gesture of surrender as one meant to calm or quiet.

"Bree?” Rand said her name in question. He could have been asking anything. Was she all right? Had anything happened? What was going on? It didn't really matter because Rand didn't wait for an answer. He launched himself at Macauley Stuart before there was an explanation from that quarter. Just now he didn't care what anyone had to say.

Macauley was easily toppled and thrown to the ground. Rand grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up, and threw a hard right that put the doctor down again.

"Rand!” It was Bria who shouted. “No! Don't hurt—” She didn't finish because it was useless. Macauley Stuart's howl of pain left no doubt that he had been hurt.

"Bloody, bloody hell!” the doctor swore. “You broke my nose!"

"Are you sure I didn't
sprain
it?” Rand's demand came through a tightly clenched jaw. He ducked Macauley's punch and landed another of his own, this time on the doctor's midsection.

Stuart's breath was forced out of his lungs. He doubled over, but instead of falling to his knees he ran full tilt at Rand. His head butted Rand in the stomach.

"So much for Queensbury rules,” Rand said hoarsely. He recovered his balance and set Macauley back on his heels with an upper cut. The doctor's head snapped up as his bottom teeth met his top ones.

"Rand!” Bria cried again. “Rand! Please!” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Claire approaching. “Can you make him stop, Claire? He's going to kill Dr. Stuart!"

At the sound of Claire's name, Rand's head swiveled to find her. Stuart didn't waste this advantage and drew back his fist for a superior roundhouse punch. The swing was so powerful, it bruised the doctor's knuckles. It also dropped Rand to his knees. He fell against Stuart more than tackled him, but the effect was the same. The physician went down and dragged Rand with him. They rolled on the ground, each looking to land the definitive blow that would end the fight, if not settle anything.

Claire took a step backward when they brushed her gown. She held out one hand. “Bria?” she called. “Where are you?"

Bria detached herself from the cottonwood. “Here,” she said, stepping closer to Claire. “I'm here.” She took Claire's extended hand and drew her back again when the two men widened their ring.

"It's Macauley, isn't it?” Claire asked. “Rand's fighting with the doctor."

"Yes."

Claire realized her own hand was steadier than Bria's. “Are you hurt? We heard you cry out."

"No. I'm all right.” She raised her voice so that it could be heard over the pained grunts of her brother and the doctor. “I'm all right! Nothing happened, Rand! I was foolish and frightened and—” She squeezed Claire's hand tightly as Rand found a fistful of Stuart's shirt and used it to lever him against a tree.

Rand was breathing heavily and his tongue seemed to be tangled in his head, but he managed to make himself understood. “You ... leave ... my sister ... alone ... you don't ... touch her ... or walk behind her ... you don't sniff after ... her skirts. She's no whore. Next time ... I'll kill you."

To punctuate his warning, Rand knocked Stuart's head against the deeply ridged trunk once; then he rose from his crouch and shook himself off. He glanced into the shadows where Bria and Claire stood huddled together. “Bree, go to the house. I'll escort Claire back in a few minutes."

Bria looked at Macauley. His head was lolling at an uncomfortable angle against his shoulder. “What about Dr. Stuart?"

"A dip in the river will bring him around."

"You don't intend to drown him, do you?"

Rand paused long enough to let her know it had occurred to him. “Not this time,” he said under his breath. “Go on, Bree. I'll speak to you later."

Bria tried to release Claire's hand and realized she was the one being held now. “Claire?"

"I'll return with you,” she said quietly.

Rand's fingers raked his hair. Frustration made his voice more brusque than coaxing. “Stay with me, Claire. This will only take a few minutes with the doctor."

"I'm going with Bria. I've heard everything I want to.” She tugged on Bria's hand. “Please.” The appeal that could not be seen in her eyes was in her voice and in the tightening of her fingers.

Still, Bria looked at Rand for direction. He nodded once, stiffly, making no effort to mask his unhappiness with Claire's decision. “Take my elbow,” Bria told Claire.

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed once on the half hour. Claire turned over in bed and drew the covers up to her shoulders. She tried to remember if she had heard the two o'clock chimes. Perhaps she had fallen asleep at the very moment she thought it would never happen. No matter, she was awake again.

Propping herself on one elbow, she reached for the cool compress on the bedside table. She lay back and placed it over her eyes. Beneath the damp cloth her lids were still swollen, the edges of them red. Claire had never cried prettily, and she had no expectation that being blind changed that. Her complexion would have pinkened but not with perfect roses in her cheeks. The color would be there in asymmetrical blotches, across her forehead and along her neck.

She sniffed rather inelegantly and found the handkerchief tucked in the cuff of her nightgown. She blew her nose and winced when she rubbed the tender tip. If she didn't gain some control of herself, it would be a beacon by morning. That was enough to make Claire toss the handkerchief toward the table. Chances were, she thought, she wouldn't be able to find it again if she
did
need it.

Claire added her forearm to the weight of the compress across her eyes. She felt the cloth dampen her sleeve but she didn't remove it. The extra pressure seemed to keep the tears at bay. For now it was all she cared about. It was one thing to allow herself the freedom to weep, something else entirely to let others know she had.

Lost in a muddle of thoughts and images she had no defense for, Claire did not hear the door handle turn. She was deaf to the whisper of her door passing across the fringed rug. It wasn't until she heard the first creak of floorboards that she realized she wasn't alone.

She lay very still, hardly breathing. Perhaps her visitor didn't know she wasn't sleeping and this small advantage she kept to herself. By the time the intruder crossed the room to her bedside, she knew who it was. She decided that pretending to be asleep was the only solution.

"Claire?"

She thought Rand's ragged whisper might be her undoing. There was part of her that longed to bolt upright and slap his face. If he said her name again in just that way, his voice somehow sensual and urgent, she might do it.

"I know you're not sleeping,” he said. He sat on the bed and raised the candle he held above her. Golden light flickered over her but she didn't move. “Claire, please.” He thought she might continue to play at being asleep then he saw her lips part softly.

"Go away.” It was not a petulant command but an order that was not meant to brook refusal.

"I've just left Bree,” he said. “Or I would have come sooner."

"I wish you wouldn't have come at all. I didn't think I had to lock my door.” She turned on her side away from him and rested her head on her damp forearm. The compress dropped on the pillow.

Rand shifted the candle so he could better see what had fallen. The presence of the compress immediately raised his concern. “Is it your eyes, Claire? Is there pain?"

Under her breath, Claire called herself a fool. She should have known he had a candle or a lamp when he didn't miss a beat on his way to her bed. “Put out the candle,” she said.

For a moment Rand thought that it was the light that bothered her eyes, then he realized she only meant for him not to see her. He wet his index finger and thumb and suffocated the flame. The wick sizzled and a thin spiral of acrid smoke leapt into the air. “It's out,” he said when he didn't feel her turn on the bed.

"I know.” She remained exactly as she was.

"What about your eyes, Claire? Should I wake Stuart?"

"Then you let him live,” she said dully. “How clever of you to realize I might need him."

"Claire."

She could not miss the admonishment in Rand's tone. Claire sighed somewhat impatiently. “I'm fine. There's no reason to disturb Macauley."

Rand reached for her. Intent upon turning Claire onto her back, his hand hovered just above her shoulder. Through the small space of air that separated them, he felt her stiffen.

"Don't touch me,” she said. “Don't you dare touch me. I couldn't bear it."

He withdrew his hand slowly. “I'm sorry."

Claire had no sense of what he was apologizing for. Did he mean that he was sorry for almost touching her now or that he regretted everything that had come before it? She supposed it didn't matter. If apology was why he had come, then it was finished. “Fine,” she said. “Good night."

Rand was silent for a long time. “Perhaps it was a mistake to come here,” he said quietly. “I needed some assurance that you were all right."

"Well, you have it. You can rest easy."

He swore softly. “Nothing's settled, Claire. Apparently you believe you have some right to be angry at me. I don't know that I deserve that. I didn't do anything wrong this evening."

That statement had the power to take her breath away. It was a moment before she could answer. “No. That's right.
I
did. You made that very clear."

Rand frowned. “What are you talking about? I never said—"

"You told Macauley he had no right to touch your sister."

"Claire, I only—"

"She wasn't a whore, you said."

"I didn't mean that
you
were."

"Didn't you? Wasn't that just the conversation we were having before you ... before...” She didn't finish. She couldn't. The ache in her throat effectively blocked her voice.

Rand turned slightly on the bed, drawing his knee up so that it rested near the small of her back. He wanted so very much to touch her. To keep that from happening, his fingers curled into the loose bed sheets. “That's not how I remember it,” he told her, his own voice not much above a whisper. “It's not how I think of you."

Claire did not believe it. “No? You're here now, aren't you? Or would you have me understand you often visit Henley's female guests in the middle of the night?"

"Now you're twisting things. You know that's—"

"I know
nothing."
Claire yanked hard on the coverlet, pulling it closer about her shoulders like protective armor. “Perhaps this is something you and your brothers all played at. Were the other women allowed a choice, or did they have to accept your attentions once you barged into their bedchambers?"

Rand's head snapped up as if he'd been slapped.

Unaware that she had struck her target, Claire went on. “What would you do to Macauley Stuart if you found him like this in your sister's room? The only difference between Bria and me is that she has someone to protect her."

Rand removed himself from Claire's bed. He stood beside it a moment, staring at her shadowed profile. “You're wrong,” he said finally. “There's another difference. Bria said no. That word never once crossed your lips."

Claire's hand made a fist in her pillow. “Get out,” she said hoarsely.

"As you wish."