Petals in the Storm (29 page)

She reached out and brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her expression desolate. "Please, I beg you ..."

Rafe couldn't bear to see her fierce pride broken. Turning into her hand, he kissed her palm and whispered, "Oh, God, Margot, I've waited so long. So very, very long ..."

The desire that had been consuming him for days flared to white heat, and for an instant his vision blurred. More than anything on earth, he wanted to bury himself inside her—to lose himself in passion. Yet this was not the time for a wild, heedless coupling; if he was to help her, he must be stronger and calmer than she.

He took hold of her shoulders to draw her into a kiss. As soon as he touched her, she began shaking.

He became absolutely still. "Is that desire or fear?"

Not meeting his eyes, she replied, "A little of both."

How strange to think that the evening before, he had wondered if he might be capable of rape; the mere thought that Margot could fear him was like a red-hot
poker
in his belly.

While he was trying to decide what to say, she raised her hand to brush nervously at her hair. The sleeve of her gown slipped a little, revealing an ugly bruise on her forearm.

When he saw the purple-blue splotch, he dropped his hands from her shoulders. The knowledge that strangers had hurt her made him want to do murder. "This isn't a good idea," he said tightly. "I don't want to do anything that you'll regret later."

"I won't regret this." She took his hand and clasped it to her heart. "I need to remember that... that not all men are vicious brutes."

Unable to keep an edge from his voice, he said, "Given that I'm a selfish, arrogant, conceited rakehell, are you sure that I'm a good choice for restoring your faith in men?"

Her face flooded with color. "I'm sorry for what I said. I ... I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yes, you did, and with some justice. I'm certainly selfish, definitely arrogant, and quite possibly conceited." He made a show of pondering. "I'm not sure I'll admit to being a rakehell—I like to think that I practice my vices in a civilized fashion."

"Then I'll retract that particular insult." She offered a tremulous smile. "Truce?"

He had wanted to amuse her, but when he looked into her smoky eyes, he saw devastation. Chilled, he realized that the only thing holding her together was willpower, and even the steeliest will had its limits. If she was not brought back from the precipice of fear, she might fall into the abyss.

'Truce, my dear." Again he drew her into his arms and bent his head to hers. When their lips touched there was a small shock, like the spark that sometimes occurred in cold weather. Part of that was the attraction that always vibrated between them, but this time there were disquieting undercurrents.

As she responded to the kiss, her rigidity lessened, but the improvement was short-lived. Her eyes drifted shut, and she suddenly stiffened again. Then she began tugging clumsily at his shirt to free it from his breeches.

He caught and immobilized her hands. "We have hours until dawn, and I intend to use every moment well," he said soothingly. "Relax, accept, enjoy. I promise that when we are done, what happened in the Place du Carrousel will seem like no more than a distant nightmare."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Rafe. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the hands and faces again. It's ... it's like being set on by wolves." She drew an unsteady breath. "I can't control the terror, and the only thing I know that is stronger than fear is passion."

"It's true that passion has a way of obliterating everything else, at least for a while," he agreed. But he also knew that it would be hard for her to lose herself in desire when she was emotionally so close to the breaking point.

Then he saw how he must proceed. Not once had she called him "your grace" with her razor sarcasm. By the same token, for him the formidable countess had vanished, replaced by Margot Ashton. Quietly he said, "We need more than a truce, Margot. Let's try to go back to our earlier selves—to a time before life became so painful and complicated. Forget tonight's riot, and every other episode that has left scars and cynicism. Pretend that you're eighteen, and I'm twenty-one, and the world is a place of infinite promise."

"I don't know if I can," she said, her voice aching. "If only it were really possible to go back."

"I would take you to the past if I could, but I'm afraid that's beyond my power." Tenderly he brushed a shining strand of hair from her grazed cheek. "Still, for a few hours, we can recreate what might, have been if the world were a simpler—or kinder—place."

"The world is neither simple nor kind," she said bitterly.

"Tonight it is." He lifted her hands and kissed them as if she were made of egg-shell porcelain. "Believe, Margot, if only for the next few hours.

Her tense fingers slowly uncurled. "I'll try, Rafe."

He resumed their kiss, deliberately focusing all of his attention on the sensual merging of their mouths. Tonight was the wedding night he had dreamed of when they were betrothed. Nothing in the world mattered beyond the softness of her lips on his, the rough, moist texture of her tongue, the warmth of her breasts compressing against his chest.

At eighteen Margot had been innocent, but also impetuous and eager for new experience. Though Rafe at twenty-one had been experienced enough to insure that all would go smoothly, he had still had enough youthful optimism to believe in happy endings.

For a moment the ugly reality of what had destroyed that optimism intruded on his imaginings, but he pushed it away. Tonight was for what might have been, and silently he vowed that all the subtle skills of love that he had ever learned would be his gift to her.

As when he had been calming Castlereagh's frightened horse, he created tranquility within himself so that his mood could be transmitted to Margot. Her fear gradually diminished, the tension flowing from her like sand from an hourglass.

When her body had become malleable, he began trailing kisses across her high cheekbones. He reached her ear and licked the dainty, complex shapes with his tongue.

She gave a breathy sigh of pleasure, and her head fell back. With humility, he thought of what trust it took to offer one's vulnerable throat to another being. Strange, that in spite of all the suspicion and conflict there had been between them, she could trust him when she was at her most defenseless.

He pressed his mouth to the fragile skin below her jaw, feeling the beat of her blood and the whispery vibration of her breath. Spreading one hand behind her back for support, he began unfastening the small round buttons that secured the front of her nightgown.

As her pale skin was revealed, his lips drifted, slow and thorough. Pretending that tonight was an earlier, simpler time gave him a delicious sense of naughtiness as he delved lower and lower. When he blew lightly into the shadowed valley formed by her breasts, she trembled, then began kneading his back with restless fingertips.

After six buttons the nightgown would open no further, so he reached for the hem of the garment to remove it entirely. But when he had raised the hem to the middle of her thighs, he paused. For a clothed man to make love to a naked female implied things about power and dominance that were not what he wanted Margot to feel. They should be equally exposed.

He slid from the bed and swiftly removed his clothing, then joined her again as her dazed eyes opened to see where he had gone. Her high cheekbones were dramatically sculpted by candlelight, and the shadow of fear was still on her.

"I haven't forsaken you, Margot," he said quietly.

"I'm here for as long as you want me to be, and no longer." Though if she wanted him to stop, he didn't know how he would be able to endure it.

This time she moved to him, wrapping her slim, strong arms around his bare waist before touching her full lips to his mouth. He guessed that tonight she would speak little, so it was up to him to sense what she needed.

During the deep, unhurried kiss that followed, he drew her nightgown up over the tantalizing curves of her body. The flimsy fabric stayed crumpled around her shoulders for several minutes because neither of them could bear to separate long enough to allow the garment to be pulled over her head.

Finally he broke away and tugged the gown off, then tossed it aside. As his gaze went over her, he drew an involuntary breath. What a fool he had been to think that all women were made much the same. For him, Margot was the essence of female mystery, and she aroused him as no other woman ever had.

A tremor in his voice, he said, "You're as beautiful as I've always known you would be."

She gave a fleeting smile, then hid her face against his shoulder like the shy virgin bride of his imagination. "It's nice to pretend. To begin again," she whispered, her breath caressing his neck.

"More than nice. Marvelous." He stroked her hair, and the lustrous strands twined around his fingers. "Magical."

When she exhaled with delight, the movement caused her nipples to swing teasingly across his chest. His body tightened painfully, less willing to accept patience than his mind.

For a moment he teetered perilously between lust and restraint. Perhaps she was ready....

No. It was too soon. Over the years, his feverish dreams of her had been a product of his own eternal desire, but tonight his needs must be secondary.

After mastering himself, he gently pressed her back into the pillows. She was as pliant as willow, like the trusting girl she had been. He found it remarkable that for tonight, at least, she had managed to put aside her stubborn independence in favor of a sweetly feminine yielding.

Numerous bruises, obscene and ugly, marred the creamy perfection of her body. Instinctively he touched his lips to a purple-black patch on her forearm before remembering that he should be more careful. "Did that hurt you?"

"No." Her fingers curled into the counterpane. "Oh, no."

Taking that as encouragement, he gave each mark a feather-light caress with his tongue. Shoulder, elbow, hip; ribs, abdomen, and thigh. Ragged changes in her breathing tracked his progress like musical counterpoint.

When each bruise had been acknowledged, he cupped her lush breasts in his hands and buried his face in the tender cleft between. Her heart beat against his cheek, powerful and warmly alive.

If matters had gone differently—if the pistol had misfired—that indomitable heart might have been forever silenced.

Needing to obliterate the unthinkable, he turned his head and began suckling her breast. She whimpered and arched upward, her nipple going taut against the roof of his mouth.

Her hips began shifting with restless eagerness, so he drew both hands downward, his palms shaping the rich swell from waist to thigh. The tawny thatch between her thighs was a shade darker than the hair on her head, autumn oak rather than summer gold.

As he licked the warm convex surface of her belly,

he slipped his palm between her knees. She gave a sudden gasp that was not pleasure, and her legs locked together.

"Trust me, Margot," he murmured, "It's natural to be nervous the first time, but I swear that I won't harm you."

She made a sound that seemed wrenched from deep inside her. Then, with obvious effort, she forced herself to relax again.

He caressed her tense limbs until her relaxation was genuine. At the same time, and moving with the same rhythm, he nuzzled and kissed her breasts and belly. By the time his hand had progressed to the top of her inner thighs, she radiated heat and yearning. He wove his fingers through the soft tawny curls to the hidden mysteries below.

When he touched her, she gave a small cry. Her hips shifted spasmodically, pressing into his hand. He probed more deeply, finding folds of delicate flesh that pulsed against his fingertips, lavishly moist.

As he expertly petted and probed, her nails bit painfully deep into his shoulders. "N-now?" she quavered.

"Soon, my dear. Soon." He continued until he judged that she was on the verge of culmination. Then, throbbing with painful desire, he positioned himself over her. He entered slowly, and the tight, welcoming clasp of her body was everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. Knowing he was on the verge of explosion, he held still, his whole being hammering with an insistence that drowned out all the world but her.

Maggie had expected that there would be awkwardness at joining their strangers' bodies for the first time, but there was none. They might have been designed by nature as ideal mates, and she felt completed as never before. Without conscious volition, her pelvis curled demandingly against Rafe's.

He gasped. "S-steady now." He was braced above her, his broad shoulders rimmed by light, his strong features enigmatic in the shadows. He had as many bruises as she, and again she was awestruck by the courage and strength he had displayed in saving a woman he despised.

He was magnificent, all power and masculine grace, and she would savor every instant of their mating. In a distant corner of her mind, she knew that she would pay a bitterly high price for this joy, but she refused to think about that now. Wanting more of him, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him down, relishing the hard weight of his body pressing her into the feather mattress.