Swan's Grace (26 page)

Her breasts were full and well rounded, her waist slim. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined.

His fingers nearly trembled as he tugged at the tie of her pantaloons. The thin cotton gave up more easily and fell to her feet, revealing beautifully sculpted hips and long legs.

But she didn't move. She stood like stone, the material like shackles around her ankles. And when he lifted her chin, he saw the emptiness in her eyes, a desolation that had nothing to do with standing naked in front of him.

Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around her, then swept her up. He laid her on the high four-poster bed he had used as his own for a few short months. As if she were a child, he rubbed her dry before wrapping her in his thick cashmere robe.

With a patience that surprised him, he gathered her close, then set her in front of the fire. He poured a crystal glass of brandy, then sat down behind her, pulling her between his knees as he leaned back against an overstuffed chair. After coaxing her to take a sip, he slowly began to work the tangles from the long, curly strands of her hair.

Whether it was hours or minutes, he didn't know. They shared the brandy, sitting in a quiet cloud of golden firelight as he pulled the soft bristle brush through her hair in long, sweeping strokes. She didn't utter a word the entire time, just sat staring at the flames.

"Talk to me, Sophie," he said when her hair was dry and her body warmed.

She tensed and tried to get up, but he wouldn't let her. He turned her around to face him. She was still between his bent knees, though now she was kneeling on her own. He could see the emotion in her eyes. She seemed cornered, desperate. But then the look changed, shifted, and she reached out and touched his lips.

His body leaped, hard and demanding. But with steely control, he gently took her hand away.

"No, Sophie. I'm not going to let you change the subject. Touching me or kissing me isn't going to change anything."

"Of course it will," she said, her voice a practiced whisper of breath.

He recognized it now. "Stop!" he said fiercely. "You can't hide from the past any longer."

Silence sliced through the room.

"Ah, Sophie," he whispered. "Are you ashamed of what people say your mother did with Niles Prescott? Is that what has been holding you back from me all this time? That doesn't have any bearing on you. As to the concert, I'm sorry you didn't get the solo. But you will play the Music Hall now, and you will show them what they missed."

Her face turned to a mask of genuine surprise before it crumpled completely. Tears sprang from her eyes and she tried to jerk away. But still he held her, cupping her face, before he leaned forward and kissed her gently on her forehead and cheeks, on her eyelids so softly. As if his touch could truly heal her.

He was close.

Too close, or not close enough?

She could feel the heat of him, the strength, and she wanted nothing more than to lean into him, to let him hold her, cherish her. His gaze was dark as he studied her, and she knew he was trying to see into her soul. For one brief second, she almost let him.

Instead she closed her eyes, turning her head.

"I don't have to see your eyes to understand," he whispered, as always knowing. "I believe we are meant to be together."

Her head snapped back, and she felt a blaze of feelings. "Do you really think that?" she demanded, Megan's words having cruelly reminded her that there was no place for her in Boston.

"Yes."

So kind, so gentle.

She wanted to scream her frustration.

"You don't understand anything! It is impossible."

"Why? Tell me why! Because your mother had relations with another man?"

The words took her breath. She felt strangled and trapped, remembering. "Don't blame this on my mother." But did she?

The thought leaped out at her. Determinedly she quelled it. She loved her mother. Missed her mother. Appreciated all she had done for her.

"Then why?" he demanded.

"Because I saw you with Megan!"

The words sliced through his kindness. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his tone dangerous.

"I saw you with Megan in your garret in Cambridge."

She saw the surprise, then the frustration and regret that filled him.

"The night you said you saw where I lived," he whispered to himself.

"I came because of your note."

"What note?"

"After my mother died you sent a note saying to come to you," Her voice quieted. "When I needed you, your note arrived." She blinked and focused on him. "But when I got there Megan was—"

"The bitch," he stated coldly. "I never sent a note."

The words beat in her head like the pounding of a drum. Her throat tightened. Her world spun.

"What does it matter who sent the note?" she asked. "You made love to her. I saw!"

"I did not make love to her, Sophie."

"You were naked!"

"I was getting out of the bath and she was there."

"And clearly you wanted her. That is hard to deny!"

His lips thinned to a flat line. "I'm a man," he said in cold, hard syllables. "God, she reached out and touched me. I was alone and young."

Sophie turned away sharply, remembering the hardness of Grayson. And his eyes, dark and desperate, strained as feminine hands moved on him, holding him, stroking him. She standing paralyzed, watching, shocked, sick, but unable to look away. And Megan looking up, seeing her. Smiling that triumphant smile.

Sophie had backed out silently, then once outside she had run. "How does being young and alone make it all right?"

"It is all right because I sent her away."

She blinked and her brow furrowed.

"She came to me, yes. But I sent her away, Sophie."

She jerked around to face him. His expression was as serious and gentle as she had ever seen it.

"There have been women in my life. I won't deny that. But do you really think I would make love to someone who had hurt you in so many ways?"

The words strangled her, and her mind reeled with what he had just said. She didn't trust her ears. "What are you saying?"

"You know what I'm saying."

He hadn't made love to Megan. She could hardly absorb the words. Or the portent.

She stared at him, her heart soaring, and for one startling moment she nearly flung her arms around his strong shoulders. But in the next second her heart stilled.

He hadn't made love to Megan.

As if it were a cruel joke, she suddenly understood what that meant. He hadn't betrayed her with someone who had lived her whole life trying to hurt her.

Mistakes and regrets spun in her mind. Her stomach roiled. But it was too late for that.

She jerked away and started to scramble free.

But he caught her bare ankle.

"Quit running! You have been running ever since your mother died."

A strangled sob rose in her throat, and she kicked to get free. But he held secure, pulling her back to him.

She was crying now, tears burning a path down her cheeks for so many reasons. "I hate you," she choked out.

"No, you don't," he whispered, as if the simple words were terribly important to him. "You're just mad at me. And perhaps at yourself."

Her sob burst out, and she gave in. The walls tumbled down and she flew into his arms, holding him as fiercely as she had ever held anything before.

"I'm sorry. So sorry," she whispered.

They came together like two halves of a whole, no place for thought, only sensation.

Her tears were hot and he kissed them away, his strong hands framing her face. His fingers slid back into her hair, tangling in the strands he had just dried. His tongue traced her lips. "Open for me, love."

She did, savoring the rich, brandy-laced taste of him. Without breaking the kiss, he pulled her into his lap as he came back against the overstuffed chair. Her knees pressed into the thick rug on either side of his thighs. She had nothing on beneath the robe, and she could feel the soft woolen flannel of his pants against her most intimate skin. Sensation shimmered through her, and she gasped when he moved just so.

His hands slipped beneath the heavy cotton, the sash belt loosing its hold as he ran his hands along her sides, coming around to cup her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples. A moan started low and tried to pry its way free. But she swallowed it back, breathing in deeply as his hands drifted downward over the gentle curve of her belly, until his fingers grazed the tight curls between her legs. This time she couldn't hold back the sound.

Their lovemaking turned frantic then, each surrendering, each forgetting all else. He ran his hands over her body, and she gasped as liquid heat seared her.

They came up on their knees, the robe falling away completely, and she wanted to lose herself in his arms.

She tore at his shirt, but she couldn't work it free. She had the fleeting thought that she had something to prove— to herself, to him. About the past. Something that she would make him understand once and for all.

But she pushed it away. She could do nothing else but love him. Once. Something to hold dear and remember.

He swept her up, and she circled his neck as he carried her back to the bed. But he surprised her when he laid her down and didn't follow.

"God, Sophie. If I don't leave you now, I won't be able to." He said the words as if they cost him greatly. "But soon we will be married. I will make love to you then. Long and slow and sweet."

Her arms locked around his neck. She didn't respond with words, she pulled him back to her lips.

He groaned at the touch and she could feel him fighting her. But when she flicked her tongue against his lips, he was lost.

He came down beside her with a low, greedy cry. "You make me lose control," he said with a rasping breath of accusation.

She gasped as heat seared her body when the soft material of his evening shirt brushed ever so lightly against her breasts, bringing them to taut peaks.

Outside, the rain beat against the windows like a native drum. She felt the throbbing in her soul, making her body burn as it never had before.

She understood that she was giving in, and she wanted nothing more than this. This man. This way. And she couldn't do anything else but press her hand over his when he brought his fingers to her heart.

Drifting lower, the heel of his hand grazed the side of one breast before he cupped the soft underswell. Her eyes fluttered shut when he brought his lean, black-clad thigh between her own, spreading her legs. He nibbled at her Zips, sucking gently, lingeringly, his tongue tracing the outline of her mouth before plunging deep inside.

He played her as skillfully as she played the cello, alternately giving then demanding. When she tried to turn to him, he gently held her still. Balancing himself on one elbow, he looked at her. "Sophie," he murmured, his low, hoarse voice filled with raw desire.

But before she could respond, he ran his hand between her breasts, lingering at the gentle swell of her belly. He traced her knee, pulling it up, then very slowly brought his palm up the inside of her thigh before continuing on to find the soft, hidden folds of her womanhood.

Her breath came quick and shallow when he slid one finger inside her wetness, circling around before he inserted another. She cried out her pleasure, and, unable to help herself, she raised herself to him.

She grew frantic, wanting something she couldn't name. But when she moaned her frustration and moved her hips, he gentled her.

"Not yet," he murmured, stroking her slowly, then deeply, then softly teasing her nether lips.

With infinite care, cradling her shoulders with his arm, he brought her to a fever pitch of wanting and needing, but not knowing how to give in.

"Grayson?" she whispered.

"Yes, love," he said gently, "I'm here."

Her body sought him, soared toward something. But suddenly she tried to get free.

"What's wrong?"

She came up on her knees and boldly pulled at his shirt. "I want you," she cried. "Completely. Not you showing me or teaching me. I want to find whatever it is together."

"Dear God," he whispered, his voice barely a sound.

With a panther's grace, he tossed the shirt aside, allowing her to run her hands up his back, the hard, subtle ripple of muscles widening into broad shoulders. She took his kiss, then demanded more.

She melted into him, wanting to feel him, to feel this body that was meant to be hers. She wanted to know every inch of this man whom she loved.

And when she thought she couldn't take it a second longer, he came over her and settled between her thighs. With his breath coming in sharp bursts, he raised her knees as he caressed her tongue with his own, sucking and nipping. His body moved, pressing against her secret opening, teasing, pulsing until she was wet and ready. Only then did he moan his surrender and thrust inside her.

The movement took her breath, and the world froze around them, each coming back a bit to stare at the other, the truth about her past no longer deniable. She wasn't a virgin.

"Sophie," he breathed, deep, welling emotion etched across his face, burning in his eyes like tears.

But she didn't respond, couldn't. She only pulled him closer. "Love me, Grayson," she whispered, moving against him until he groaned and began to move within her, slowly, steadily, making them forget.

He loved her then, as if trying to become one with her, his strokes long and slow, complete, then faster. Sweet, maddening love until they both shattered.

Afterward she lay in his embrace, their arms and legs entwined. A moment of perfect bliss.

She tried to keep her mind blank. Wanting to savor this cherished space of time, she tried to keep thoughts at bay. But as minutes ticked by, reality circled faster and faster with each word Grayson didn't utter.

Her heartbeat began to hammer, not from passion, but from growing despair. She had known it would come to this, but still it wounded her to the core.