Surrender to a Stranger (50 page)

He said her name with the same languor and care that he always had, caressing the letters as if they were notes in an incredible piece of music. The tenderness and desire in his voice washed over her like a symphony, causing her to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck while pressing her lips to his.

Her response to him broke the last vestiges of his control. He crushed her against him and kissed her desperately, like a drowning man who has just found his first breath of air. She tasted sweet and hot, a mixture of wine and honey, while the delicate scent of her skin filled his nostrils with the essence of flowers. He greedily began to touch her all over, exploring the length of her back, the curve of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts. The sapphire blanket had dropped to the floor, revealing that she was wearing one of his shirts. The oversized garment draped loosely over her shoulders and fell shapelessly below her knees, hiding every lush curve of her body, and yet he was certain he had never seen anything look more sensual on a woman. He could not imagine why she had chosen to wear it, but somehow the intimacy of her electing to cover herself in something of his filled him with pleasure. She trembled against him, pressing her body into his as she released her arms from his neck and began to touch him all over, laying claim to him, grasping his shoulders, kneading his back, threading her fingers into the length of his hair, telling him that she wanted to touch and be touched. He had not expected her to want him so, he had thought she would be reluctant and afraid, but when he felt her moan and press herself against the hardness of his arousal, he knew that he was lost. Without breaking their kiss, he bent down, lifted her high in his arms, and carried her to the bed.

Jacqueline felt herself sinking into the softness of the mattress, and then Armand was covering her with the heavy warmth of his body. He kissed her deeply as he touched her though the soft cotton of her shirt, his fingers deftly releasing the buttons. She felt the garment fall open, exposing her bare skin to cool air, but his mouth was caressing her cheek, her ear, her throat, slowly working its way down to her breast, and she did not feel cold. He was teasing her, drawing circles around the velvety tip with his tongue before taking it into the heat of his mouth. She let out a ragged moan and dug her fingers into the steel muscles of his back, clawing in frustration at the fabric that kept her from touching his skin. He obliged her by tearing the garment open and throwing it to the floor. She sighed with pleasure as her hands roamed over the hard warmth of his muscular back, but by then he was tugging and sucking in gentle rhythm on her other breast and her moan suddenly became deeper and more primal. His hand moved down the flat of her stomach to the curve of her hip, and then he was touching that soft triangle of curls, lightly, gently, teasingly, making her restless with the desire for him to do more. There was a mysterious rush of liquid heat, and then he slipped his fingers inside her and began to idly caress the satiny slick folds, still sucking on her breast. She shamelessly spread her thighs wider and writhed beneath his touch, holding his head to her breast, running her hands through his coppery hair and down the solid steel of his back. His fingers moved deeper, in and out, mimicking the rhythmic sucking of his mouth, until her breathing was reduced to a shallow, ragged pant. He pulled away from her nipple and began to trace a hot path of kisses down her stomach, she felt his breath hover against the wet triangle of curls, and then suddenly he was tasting her, delicately lapping at the wet heat of her, causing her to cry out with a mixture of shock and unbearable pleasure. Her body went rigid, but his tongue began to flutter lightly inside her, like the soft beating of butterfly wings, and the sensation was so incredibly exquisite she let out a ragged moan and allowed her resistance to dissipate. A flame of mindless desire began to burn wildly inside her as he teased her with his mouth, sending restless heat from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, stripping her of her inhibitions, causing her to thrash against the bed as he tasted her quickly and deeply and thoroughly. And then, just as her breath was coming in shallow gasps and she was certain she could endure no more, he stopped, leaving her cold and alone as he stood and stripped off his breeches.

He lowered himself back onto her, covering her with his magnificent body, cradling her face between his hands as he kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She clung to him fiercely as she opened herself to him, desperate for the need of him to be inside her, wanting to give him back some of the incredible pleasure he had given her. He hovered over her for a moment, all animal power and heat and fire, and she held her breath as she stared into his emerald and sapphire eyes, burning with passion and need. And suddenly, inexplicably, she thought of his pain. She thought of his mother, and Lucette, and Angélique, and the little black box in the bottom of his chest with the lace hankie and the colored ribbons. Her heart constricted, and a tear escaped her lid. He noticed it and looked at her in surprise, as if he thought he had hurt her.

“Jacqueline?” he whispered hoasely. “Do you want me to stop?”

She laid her hand tenderly against his cheek. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him down into her, kissing him deeply as she did so.

An incredible wave of pleasure assaulted him as he buried himself inside her. He wanted to stay that way forever, lost in the sweetness of Jacqueline, in her strength, in her softness, in her remarkable ability to make him feel happy to be alive. He began to move within her, slowly, carefully, wanting it to last, but she was hungry for fulfillment and would not tolerate any more gentle teasing. She began to lift her hips to meet him, her hands moving restlessly over his body, urging him to go faster. He obliged her, thrusting powerfully into her as he held her in his arms, kissing her with weeks and months and years of pent-up passion, drinking in her life and her strength, trying to get as deep inside her as he could, as if he believed that every thrust brought him closer to her heart. His hand slipped down to where their bodies were joined and he began to caress her there, until he felt her moving faster against him, until her breathing was in tiny, shallow, desperate gasps, until her body suddenly tightened around him and a soft cry tore from the back of her throat. Then he arched his back and drove into her as far as he possibly could, his whole body alive and straining with power and need, releasing the essence of his desire deep within her. A low groan escaped him as he ground himself into her again, and again, unwilling to accept that it was over. He wanted to stay like this forever, just the two of them and nothing else. He pushed himself into her again, but his body betrayed him with its weakness and he was forced to collapse against her.

He buried his face into her neck and inhaled the scent of roses. He felt her arms tighten around him, and he worried that he would crush her, so he gathered her into his arms and rolled over onto his back, pulling her up so she lay on top of him.

They stayed together like that for a while, listening to the sound of their ragged breathing and the water breaking against the hull of the ship. Armand reached down and pulled the blankets up over them. Jacqueline lay her head against the warmth of his chest and marveled at how she could feel the beating of his heart against her cheek. She felt deliciously invigorated and exhausted. This is the way it is between a man and a woman, she thought sleepily. She wondered if her own parents had known such wonder. She was not sure. She was, however, quite certain that she would never experience such incredible passion with François-Louis. She had never felt anything toward him except a very proper, polite friendship, and even that had been severely strained. She realized she could never marry him now. She had lain twice with a man whose very presence made her blood quicken, who flushed her with warmth just by looking at her, who could take her to the stars and back whenever he touched her. She could never be satisfied with anything less.

“Armand?” she murmured softly.

“Mmm?”

“What do we do now?” she asked, feeling shy and awkward.

He tightened his arms around her and shifted his head to one side. His eyes were closed. “We sleep,” he said, his voice already thick and heavy.

“That is not what I mean,” protested Jacqueline. She began to lightly caress his nipple. “What do we do when we are back in England?” she asked.

“We go home,” he told her, as if the answer was obvious.

“Home?” repeated Jacqueline hopefully.

He nodded sleepily.

A rush of joy filled her heart. She bent her head to kiss him on the lips. “You will not regret it,” she swore softly. “We will all be very happy. I feel certain of it.” She sighed and rested her head against his chest. “We will make a wonderful family.”

Armand opened his eyes in sudden confusion. “What are you talking about, Jacqueline?”

She lifted her head to look at him. “I am talking about when we get married. Suzanne and Séraphine and Philippe will, of course, come to live with us.”

He looked at her blankly. “We are getting married?”

“Well, you cannot expect me to live with you as your mistress,” she pointed out, feeling a little incensed that he would want such a thing.

“No, of course not,” he agreed hurriedly, sensing that he had insulted her, “it’s just that—” He stopped, feeling hopelessly confused. He had no idea what he had said to make her think he was going to marry her. He could never marry anyone. He had tried marriage once before, and he had been a hideous failure at it. And his work as the Black Prince was far too dangerous to permit him to take on the responsibility of a wife and children. Surely she would understand that?

“Jacqueline,” he began, “I cannot marry you—”

“I don’t care if you are not titled,” she interrupted fiercely, daring him to contradict her. “According to current French law I am no longer titled either, so that makes us equal, does it not?”

He stared at her in wonder. Was this the arrogant, young daughter of a duc who had so passionately defended her aristocratic status to him just a few months ago? Who believed the rigid hierarchy of the nobility was a gift from God and was therefore not to be questioned? Who had thought of him as nothing more than a hired servant? Who was betrothed to a marquis of impeccable lineage, as befit her station? He was surprised and humbled by the changes in her. But it was not the issue of her title that prevented him from making her his wife.

“Jacqueline, that is not why I cannot marry you,” he told her gently. “In a few weeks I shall resume my work as the Black Prince, and I cannot expect you to sit at home and wait and wonder if you will ever see me again. Also, if I had the responsibility of a wife and children, it would affect how I perform my work. It would cloud my judgment, making me less willing to take risks and therefore slower to respond, which could ultimately cost me my life.” He reached out and caressed her cheek. “Do you understand?”

She stared at him in silence for a moment. “Are you absolutely mad?” she demanded suddenly, her voice quivering with fury. She rolled off of him, covering herself with the blankets as she did so. “How can you even think of going back there?”

He raised himself up on one elbow and regarded her seriously. “Jacqueline, the revolution grows more violent every day. Robespierre and his followers are trying to crush all opposition to the new order, using appalling brutality. During my time in prison there was talk of the slaughter happening not just in Paris, but all through France. In December alone, two thousand prisoners were executed in Saint-Florent, while others were taken from the prisons at Nantes and Angers and shot like animals. They say three or four thousand perished that way.”

“You cannot save all of them,” protested Jacqueline weakly.

“The
représentant en mission
at Nantes has a particular taste for cruelty,” he continued gravely. “He has decided to supplement the work of the guillotine with what he calls ‘vertical deportations.’ Do you know what those are?”

“No,” she replied, not certain she wanted to know.

“He has his men take flat-bottomed barges and punch holes in the sides of them. Planks are nailed to these holes to keep the boats afloat. The accused men and women are put into them with their hands and feet tied, and the boats are pushed into the middle of the Loire. The executioners then break off the planks and jump into another boat, while the victims stand and watch themselves sink. Those who try to escape by jumping into the river are cut to pieces with sabers.”

She stared at him in horror, unable to speak.

He stopped there, not wanting to further upset her. He would not tell her of the so-called republican marriages, in which young men and women were degraded by being stripped completely naked and tied together to die in these boats, much to the sadistic amusement of their executioners.

“I cannot stop my work,” he told her.

“Not even for me?” she asked, her voice small and pleading.

He regarded her seriously. “No,” he answered. “Not even for you.”

She shook her head, trying to understand. Her eyes were becoming blurred with tears. “You have been fortunate to survive as long as you have,” she told him. “But they are looking for you, and now they know what you look like. It is only a matter of time before they catch you again. For you to return to France is suicide.” She stopped, her voice breaking with anger and fear.

He reached out and gently caught the tear that was trickling down her cheek. “It has always been suicide, Jacqueline,” he told her softly. “But in the process, I have been able to do some good. You are living proof of that. And every life I save is penance for those I was not able to help. Do you understand?”

“I know about your wife, and mother, and Angélique,” she informed him tearfully. “And I think you have done more than enough to make up for what was never your fault in the first place. There is nothing you could have done to help them, don’t you see that?”

He shook his head. “I could have been there to stop them from going,” he said simply. “I could have gone instead.”