Shadow Play (28 page)

That was when he heard Sarah weeping inside her tent. He moved to the shelter and nudged the flap open. He could just make out her figure crouched upon her sleeping mat, her hair like a sheet of moonbeams spilling over her shoulders to the mat. "Sarah?" he whispered.

Her face turned up to his. She moved quickly on her hands and knees to the opening and grabbed his hand, his arm, drawing him inside and herself against him, knocking his hat to the ground. Her arms closed around him and she held him, trembling. "The drums," she said. "Morgan, what does it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Will the Indians kill us at dawn? Is that it?"

He shook his head, unable to concentrate on anything but
the feel of her against him. He lowered his rifle to the ground so he could slide his arms around her. Having pushed her away so many times in the past, he no longer had the willpower to do it.

"I'm afraid," she confessed. "I wanted so badly to be brave, but I'm so tired of being brave. Please don't be angry at me any longer. Please don't ridicule me for being afraid or being so foolish these last many weeks that I couldn't accept what I knew in my heart. I can't help being frightened. I don't want to die." She melted against him, and her shoulders shook. "I don't want to die," she repeated in a strained, broken voice.

He stroked her damp hair and traced the shell of her ear with one finger. "I won't let them have you, love. I promise you that."

She wept harder. "Oh, Morgan, I had such dreams. It isn't fair. There's so much to learn, to see, to experience. You don't understand."

"Yes, I do."

"How can you? You've done so much. Experienced so much. You're so... worldly." She wiped her nose on the collar of his shirt before looking up. "You can't know what it's like to face the prospect of never marrying, of never holding my own child in my arms."

"Don't you think men have those same dreams?"

"Do you?" She looked surprised.

"Of course."

Laying her head on his shoulder again, she sighed. "It seems a shame. I think we would have made our children wonderful parents. I have so much love to give and can't seem to find anyone who wants it."

He closed his eyes and held her tighter.

The rain was falling again as he settled on the floor of the tent beside her, rocking her in his embrace. Her warmth felt good, thawing the icy ache that had plagued him throughout the past few days. "Norman doesn't love me," came her soft, sad voice through the darkness. "Men of the
aristocracy don't marry for love. They marry for convenience. And women marry for money and title. It all seems so ridiculous now. Why didn't I see that before? Well, it doesn't matter. I'm going to die and that's that. It just angers me that there is so much left unfinished. I never accomplished what I set out to do. I didn't save my father's reputation. He was such a great man."

They lapsed into silence as they sat together, Sarah in his lap, ear pressed against his heart, both listening to the drums fade under the renewed onslaught of falling rain. At last she said, "This is very nice, Morgan."

"Yes," he replied, "it is."

"I—I hope I die before you."

He smiled to himself.

"Aren't you going to ask why?" she pursued.

"Why?"

"I thought you had died once before and the pain was horrible. I shouldn't like to experience that again." She sat back. Her face looked young, a portrait of naivete* called Sunshine which embodied every fantasy he held sacred in his life. Youth. Kindness. Innocence.

"Morgan," her lips whispered. "Make love to me."

The words were so softly spoken he wondered if he had mistaken them for the wind, the rustle of rain in the trees, or the distant beating of the drums. Then her warm mouth, partially open, pressed against his throat in a kiss.' 'Please.'
 

He groaned as the heat in his body magnified a hundred times. Her hands were moving over him slowly, fingertips exploring the curve of his shoulders, the curling hairs on the back of his neck, the moist skin behind his ear, the abrasive beard on his cheeks. "Make love to me," she repeated. "I have to know, Morgan. I want to know. It's one of the great mysteries in life, isn't it? It must be. It's the creation of life. The very beginning. It's not fair that I should die and never know the wonder of it with you."

She stared at him in such perfect stillness and anticipation that he did not know what to do. He felt shaken. Disbelieving. Cowardly, all of a sudden. He had wanted her with a desire that was staggering—but that had been a dream, a fantasy. The reality of actually holding her, loving her, felt too immense to take in.

As her hands began tugging at the buttons on her shirt, he reached out and stopped them. "Don't," he told her. "Please don't. I can't—"

"You don't want me, then," she said with an edge of pain.

"Ah, Christ, Sarah..."

"What are you afraid of?"

He caught her hands as they touched his face and pushed her away. She fell to her blanket and didn't move. Finally she rolled onto her side and stared into the darkness.

He could leave now and nothing more would be said. They could each wait out the remainder of the interminable night alone, and at dawn face their destiny alone, all due to his moronic pride that would not allow him to surrender himself, body and soul, to her unless she felt the same for him. What did it matter if she didn't love him? He knew what he felt. Love was in the giving, without thought of what one might receive in turn—or so he had always thought.

He lowered himself beside her, reached tentatively to draw the hair away from her face and over her shoulder. Only then did she roll onto her back. "Hold me. I'm so frightened, Morgan."

He lay down against her, her form so slight—like a frail bird beneath him. He was afraid of hurting her, of losing her, but mostly of never having loved her.

Her arms slipped about his neck, and his own about her waist, hands sliding under the tail of her shirt and against her warm skin. His fingers closed around her rib cage, which felt vulnerable beneath the strength of his hands. Her chest rose and fell raggedly at his touch.

He kissed her cheek, her chin, her throat, and nuzzled the tender skin over her collarbone. Her fingers tangled in
his hair and twisted in his shirt. A gasp escaped her as he touched her nipple with his fingertips. "Oh, Morgan, kiss me."

She lifted her face to his, and he cradled it in his hand, tracing its contours before lowering his mouth onto hers and sliding his tongue into its sweet oblivion. The force of her response shocked him and made him forget that she knew little about the passion she aroused in him. He ground his hips against her, as if she needed proof of his need of her, and she whimpered.

He pulled away enough so that he was able to manage the buttons on her shirt. His fingers fumbled with them, and when he had managed the final one, he eased aside the clothing to expose her breasts to the light touch of his exploring, caressing fingertips, until the rose-tipped peaks were high and hard and she was moving restlessly beneath him and rolling her head from side to side, gasping his name and pulling at his shoulders with her hands. His lips descended to her throat in a hungry, urgent need to consume her, and he tried to recall a time when he had wanted a woman so desperately, yet ached so badly to take her gently to the stars.

"Slowly," he told her; then, pushing himself up, he went to work on removing her shoes, then unbuttoned her trousers, pulling them down her legs to reveal that she had no drawers on, only the stockings which she had fixed to her thighs with garters of embroidered flowers. There were tatters in the knees and on one of the ankles. Grinning, he tossed the trousers aside, but left the stockings in place. They were sexy as hell.

She turned her face away and shielded it with one hand, palm up, as if she were suddenly embarrassed. And when she tried to close her legs together, he caught them and drew them apart, bracing them open with his knees.

"Please," he heard her whisper. "Don't laugh at me. I'm too nervous. I might..."

"What?" he crooned. "What might you do, Sunshine?

Scream for Kan? I wouldn't advise it. You might wake up a few Xavante if you do. We don't want that." He removed his shirt and cast it aside. "Not now. Too damn inconvenient. And besides, someone besides me might see that your stockings are
tattered. Sarah..." He sought her cheek with an unsteady hand, cradled her throat, traced lacy patterns along the sensitive skin behind her ear. "You're beautiful," he told her. "And I've waited weeks for this." He flipped open the buttons of his breeches. "Long, excruciating weeks, Sarah, of wanting you."

He lay down upon her. She was sobbing quietly. Her heart beat against his chest, and her breathing was fast. He rolled off her slightly, but she responded by throwing her arms around him, and her legs.' 'Morgan, don't leave me.''

"I won't."

"Hold me."

He drew her close and could feel her shaking against him. His lips brushed her temple and cheek before finding her mouth again. A surge of mindless excitement rushed through him as she pressed her body to his in response to his words and the arousing motions he was making on her flesh with his fingers. He shaped and lifted her breasts in his hand, prodding the nipples into erections. Hard shivers racked her body, and she gasped and held him nearer.

"Love," he murmured, letting his hand glide over her hip and down her silken inner thigh to the garter above her knee. "You're lovely. Perfect. Even more beautiful than I ever imagined. Why was I so stubborn? I should have taken you long ago."

Sarah's eyelids fluttered open and she stared through the dark at his face and eyes that regarded her with so much desire. An ecstasy of emotion flooded through her as he brushed her mouth in a tenuous kiss. "Oh, Morgan," she breathed, throwing her head back and allowing him to strew warm, moist kisses down her throat. His hands spanned her ribs and moved upward until curving sensually over her
breasts, lightly at first, then roughly, making him groan and her sigh in her throat.

"My God, you're beautiful," he told her, his voice urgent. "Sarah, you don't know how badly I've wanted to hold you."

"Truly?" She caught his hair in her fingers and forced his head back. "Truly?" she whispered again. "And here I was thinking all that time that you couldn't abide me. Oh, Morgan, hold me and don't ever let me go. Let me live this final night of my life as if I'm loved and cherished. Pretend that you love me, if you must."

"I love you," he told her, and the words rang in the silence like haunting, musical bells. "I love you."

The tears rose and she couldn't stop them. They spilled through her lashes and slid down her face. The words were a sweet melody to her senses. All the while she had fantasized of the perfect life, the perfect love, and it had been there within her grasp for these past

many days; she just hadn't seen it. Why had they waited so long? Why had they wasted so much precious time?

His hands brushed her like a hungry flame, searching, probing, while he kissed and tortured her and whispered soft phrases in her ears, until she was flushed and shaking with turbulent, mindless emotions.

Then his hands were between her thighs, stroking the silky skin and moving slowly up
and up, and her heart and breath were stolen by the feel, of his fingers teasing
that burning, aching place of mystery, exploring her gently— so gently—sliding in and
out and around, turning her wild and abandoned so that she was lifting her body to him
and drawing it away, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside her. "Please, Morgan,
please."

"Easy," came his quiet words, and this time he pushed deeper inside her, and there was an instant shock of pain that made her whimper. Then he began stroking her again, more gently, kissing her tenderly. Finally he whispered near
her ear, "Sarah, are you certain? Once it's done there's no going back."

"I don't care," she told him. "I don't care."

"I don't want to hurt you."

He hesitated again, and she looked at him curiously. "You don't want me?"

"Lady, you have no idea..."

"Then why—"

"Sarah, I've never had a virgin."

"But—"

"I'm the
boto.
I'm supposed to seduce everything in skirts. Well, I do. Or did. But not if they're virgins. That can get you in trouble fast."

She smiled, happiness filling her heart. "Then this will be a first for us born, won't it?"

"You may regret it tomorrow."

"If there is a tomorrow for us, I'll worry about it then. Right now I want you to show me paradise. Make me a woman. Your woman, for tonight and..."

He hushed her with a kiss.

Her fingers twisted in his hair, her eyelids closing out the black night around them, her

mind tuning out the vague beating of the drums and the light spattering of rain on the canvas roof. Tomorrow didn't matter—only now, and being held by a man who made her forget all reason, who could make her fly with a simple glance, and cry with an angry flash of his mesmerizing eyes. The happiness, the security, she had ached for were here in Morgan's arms.

Then he was moving against her, enveloping her body with his, pressing her down and her legs open even as he covered her face and throat and breasts with soft, tormenting kisses that made her moan with a need that was exquisitely painful and consuming.

Then his flesh was against her, smooth and hot and full— so full, persistently nudging at the apex of her legs. Foreign, frightening, he filled her gradually, stretching the tender skin until the sensation was like a burning, prodding ember. Seeking. Sliding. Insistent, the tip of him glided in and out of the entrance, but barely; and rising up on his knees, he lowered his head to momentarily watch the coming together of their joined bodies before looking up, into her eyes. They seemed to shimmer, those silver eyes; they seemed to say more than simple words ever could. Then he whispered, "Sarah," and drove himself into her.

It was a jolt of agony, and of ecstasy.

It was the blinding consummation of bodies and souls.

It was the coming together of spirits. Of hearts. Of dreams. Of fantasies.