My Own True Love (20 page)

"Oh, dear," she whispered as he kicked open a door. He took her briskly to a big bed centered in a square of moonlight cast through a high, square window. "Oh, dear," she said again, and clutched at him as he laid her down. Her fingers dug deep into his shoulders but he mistook her panic for a sign of passion.

"Wild little animal," he said and kissed her.

When he'd kissed her before, she'd suffered it with indifferent patience; it' hadn't seemed like a threat at the time. Now his tongue delving into her mouth served to block a scream of fear. She'd gotten herself into this; she was going to have to get herself out, but as he began caressing her roughly through her clothes she felt building hysteria threatening to rob her of all control.

She didn't want him touching her! She didn't want him on top of her! She pummeled his back with her fists, but that just made him laugh.

"Such a passionate creature," he said. He started to pull off his clothing He was down to his trousers and she'd rolled off the opposite side of the bed and was considering jumping out the window when the shouting started.

"Fire! Fire! Help!"

A new fear shoved Sara's hysteria out of the way. The house was on fire! She had to find Lewis! She ran for the door.

Custine caught her before she got there. He set her firmly back on the bed. "Wait here," he ordered as he pulled on his shirt. "It's nothing. You're perfectly safe. I'll be right back."

Sara bunched up fistfuls of bedcovers in furious frustration, but she didn't say anything. She just nodded and then made a face at him when he turned his back. She waited a full ten seconds after he was gone before she sprinted out of the room.

"Sara!" She had to be
close by! "Sara!" Lewis kept low as he moved along the smoke-filled hallway.

Logic told him she was safely out of the burning mansion, but he didn't believe in logic anymore. A sixth sense told him she was up here on the second floor, perhaps trapped, probably frightened. "Sara!" he called again as he hurried from door to door. Where was she? What had Custine done to her? For if she was here, it was the French captain's doing. "If anything happens to her he's a dead man," Lewis threatened angrily.

He touched the brooch pinned on the inside of his vest. It was cool now; when he'd found it in Madame Moret's jewel case it had glowed like a burning coal as he snatched it up. Things had happened then, magical things. He couldn't remember any of it clearly. There had been light, and then a long, giddy ride down to darkness. When he'd woken, he'd wandered downstairs, almost mindless with joy, mindless of any danger. He'd felt protected, loved, things he'd never felt before.

Then the shout of "Fire!" went up and he came to his senses. Or as much as he thought he was likely to from now on. What he should have done was get the brooch away from the chateau as quickly as his legs would carry him. Instead he'd dashed upstairs to search for the gypsy girl.

He heard shouts and heavy, running footsteps and someone coughing on the smoke in the distance.

He eased warily around a corner and headed for the first door on the left side of the corridor.

"Sara!" he shouted again, just as she jerked open the door and ran into him. They fell together onto the floor. His arms went around her in a tight embrace. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

"Are you okay? Did you get the brooch? Did you start the fire?" she questioned rapidly.

He hauled her to her feet. "No, of course I didn't." Her hair tumbled loosely around her shoulders, her clothes were disheveled, and her lips swollen. "It's obvious what you've been doing."

"I was trying to cover your butt," she answered angrily. She stalked off toward the stairs. Smoke curled around her head as she moved away from the annoying Englishman. She was so angry she wasn't sure if the smoke was from the fire, or if it was coming out of her ears.

Lewis raced up and grabbed her arm. "You were trying to protect me?" He hurried her along. "Stay low," he directed.

"Yes," she answered as they reached the back staircase. They ran down them. Sara could hear the distant roaring of flames when they reached the ground floor.

"Thank you," Lewis said as they paused for a moment in the rear hallway. He looked around and tried to recall the way to the servants' entrance. "I think the kitchen's on fire. Perhaps we should try for the front of the house. Which way?"

"What?" Sara had been standing in the smoky dark next to Lewis immersed in odd emotions having to do with his actually having thanked her for something. His question surprised her into thinking about their situation. She led him toward an intersecting corridor. "This way. I think I remember how to get to the garden door."

"Garden door?" he asked. "What were you doing in the garden?"

"Fooling around," she admitted.

He heard the amusement in her voice and said, "I see."

"Custine was fooling around. I was trying to keep him from investigating the lights upstairs. That was you and the ring, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed. People were shouting in the distance but they were alone as they entered the dining room. He stopped her in a bar of light from one of the tall windows. He pulled off the ring. "Here. This is yours."

She looked at the silver and citrine ring cradled in his palm, then slowly up at his face. A warm wave of pleasure spread through her. The ring bestowed power, maybe a weird sort of power, but any kind of power was valuable. Lewis, loyal British military man though he was, wasn't trying to take that power for himself or his cause. He was freely giving it back to her. "Maybe there's hope for you yet," she said and plucked the ring out of his hand before he had a chance to change his mind.

"It's yours," he answered.

"What about the brooch?"

"That I am keeping."

"No, I meant, did you get it?"

He smiled. "Indeed." He flipped open his vest to show her a ruby in an ornate gold setting. "The ring says I'm to wear it next to my heart. Come on, let's get out of here."

She nodded, and ran for the garden door with him right behind her. They found the garden path and ran for the woods at the edge of the estate grounds. They were nearing the woods when Sara halted abruptly. Lewis ran into her. He grabbed her around the waist, steadying them both before they fell.

"What?" he demanded.

"My guitar!" she shouted as she lunged back toward the house.

He held on tight. "No! Are you mad?"

She struggled to free herself. "I have to get my guitar!"

The desperation in her voice was frightening. "No you do not," he said, firmly. "It's too late, Sara, love. Come on, before someone sees us." They'd been incredibly lucky so far; he didn't want to gamble on getting caught now that they were so close to getting clean away.

She pushed against his restraining hands. There were tears in her voice when she spoke. "You don't understand . . . that guitar, it's perfect. Like it was made for me. I have to get it back. You have to help me. Please?"

He wished she didn't sound so desperate. He wished she hadn't asked for his help. "I would if I could, sweet, but—"

"Let go of me!" she shouted, and began to struggle harder.

Lewis looked back. They were beyond sight of the house, but the sky behind them glowed red-orange. "It's too late," he told her, as gently as he could, considering she was fighting him like a hellcat.

He winced with guilt, but he didn't really feel as if he had any choice when he spun her around and planted his fist in a square, hard blow against her jaw. She collapsed, unconscious. He caught her limp body and hoisted her over his shoulder. She was a little thing, but carrying her did slow him down as he hurried up the path through the woods. It wasn't far to the gypsy camp; the night was still, clear, and crisp. He heard none but his own near-silent footsteps on the mossy path. He breathed a sigh of relief as he came around a turn in the path and saw the caravan's campfires in the distance. Home. Safe. Mission accomplished. Not another single magical or unexplainable occurrence could possibly occur to confuse his mind tonight.

He found the guitar, snugly wrapped in its oiled canvas bag, leaning against a tree only a few feet farther on. He refused to be confused, bemused, or even a little bit curious about how it had gotten there.

He just adjusted Sara's limp weight on his shoulder, picked the guitar up with his free hand, and continued on to the camp.

******************

Sara woke up knowing only that her jaw hurt and that something very essential was missing from her life. She was lying down on a soft, familiar surface, a faint light bathing her eyelids. When she opened her eyes she saw the flicker of flame from the lantern set on top of the nearby storage chest. She was in her own
bardo,
curled up on her side with a pillow under her head. She let her breath out in a slow sigh, curious but lethargic. Why did her jaw hurt? Why did her soul hurt? She closed her eyes again and rolled onto her back. With a groan she put her arm over her eyes.

"Awake at last."

Lewis's voice was rough, as if he'd been smoking. Her throat felt raw, too, come to think of it. As if she'd been smoking. Smoke. Smoke inhalation. They'd been in a fire. At the chateau. The ring. The brooch. She sat up abruptly.

"My guitar!"

Lewis stood over her, wearing only his trousers and his headscarf. He grinned at her like a half-wild Cheshire cat. Then he nudged her legs over and sat down on the bed. He handed her the guitar. She hugged it to her like a beloved child.

"Oh, Lewis, you did go back for my guitar!"

"I found—" She turned such a loving look of gratitude on him he couldn't bring himself to explain further. He just smiled and said, "Everything's all right now, love."

A ripple of deep pleasure spread through her at his words. Edgy pleasure, as if maybe everything wasn't quite all right, but maybe it was going to be. A tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter inside her for weeks began to unwind as she met his bright blue gaze. Heat spread through her from the contact.

Without knowing what she was doing she set the guitar on the floor and reached out to touch Lewis Morgan's face. A sooty-lidded, blue-eyed fox, she thought, running her fingers along the dark arch of his brows.

Lewis sat and waited, almost holding his breath as Sara moved closer to him. He wanted to take her in his arms but he let her come to him. She pushed her fingers under the headband he wore, pulled it off, and ran her hands through the loosened strands of his hair. He closed his eyes, loving the feel of her fingers combing across his scalp. He'd always loved it when a woman played with his hair. Sara seemed to know instinctively how to arouse him. He caught his breath in a hot gasp as she traced her fingers down to his throat. It set his pulse pounding when her fingernails danced in light circles around the edges of his nipples. He grasped the sides of the feather-stuffed mattress in a death grip as her artist's fingers moved on sensually to massage the tight muscles of his chest. Then the tip of her tongue touched his lips.

He opened his mouth at her gentle urging, nearly drowning in passive heat as she hungrily searched his mouth. His head spun and his blood pulsed with need. He grew hard with hunger as her hands moved over him, cleverly exploring. Her breasts pressed against his chest, the hard peaks of her nipples separated from him by only the sheer width of her muslin bodice. He wanted to feel her naked skin against his and within moments he conceived a deep hatred for the inoffensive cloth. He felt the heat from her skin; the scent of her filled his senses. He kept his eyes closed and his hands off her, though he could feel his fingers gouging holes in the mattress cover.

He'd let her take whatever she wanted. He wasn't touching her, he vowed, not until she wanted him to. She could have him, but he wasn't going to take. He'd taken enough from her. The passion she was building in him was intense, and she was making it a gift.

Sara didn't know quite what she was doing, but she couldn't stop touching him. Desire twisted deeper inside her with every small noise Lewis made. She played him, calling forth sounds of need and pleasure with her fingers and her lips, making music with small, passionate bites, and quick, sharp licks of her tongue.

She didn't remember pushing him onto his back, or freeing his hard shaft from his straining trousers, but when she brushed her lips across the sheathed tip Lewis called out her name. His hips bucked convulsively; he sat up and tangled his hands in her hair. He pulled her up the length of his body. The next thing she knew she was on her back and he was holding a knife.

Lewis had plucked the knife from under the top of the mattress. With a deep sound in his throat, he used it to slice into the material of her
gajo
dress. He tossed the knife away and ripped the fabric with his hands to get at the lush, soft curves of her body. He couldn't fight for control anymore; wanting her was a burning agony he had to end. She. was hot velvet under his hands. Her back arched passionately as he drew her breast to his mouth. He slid his hand up her thigh to the juncture of her legs. There he found and stroked her, glorying in the shivers of desire from her taut body. He wanted only to bury himself in her, to sheathe himself in consuming heat.

Lightning shot through her at his intimate caress and all Sara could do was flow on the ravaging current. He moved over her then, quick and sinuous as a cat, stroking her until she purred and the purr turned into a plea for more. She brought up her knees and he slid between them and into her in one swift, possessive motion.

Sara bucked uncontrollably at the sudden burst of pain. All her senses, already centered at where their bodies joined, jolted in response. "Lewis!" she called out, and he froze, poised over her, inside her but unmoving. She felt tearing pain.

"I'm hurting you." His words came on a grindingly ragged breath. Sweat beaded on his face and dripped onto her breasts. "God, Sara, I can't . . ." His hips stabbed forward. She groaned, but lifted herself to meet the thrust, trying to make it easier for both of them.