Sweet Savage Eden (20 page)

J
assy cried out at his touch. She had not meant to, but he startled her so when he wrenched upon the sheets that the sound escaped her. She tried to retrieve her covers, but they remained tight in his hands while his eyes condemned her. A dark cast of annoyance tightened his features, and she tried very hard not to gasp out again. She was no coward, and she didn’t fear his anger, she assured herself. She was indebted to him; he had made her his wife. He had made her mistress of this glorious house, and he had given her crystal and silver and silks and gems. But those things meant nothing to him. They were not given out of love or regard, but as a matter of course. As his horses were well shod, so would be his wife.

He smiled slowly, cynically, as if he read her mind again. She would have run, had there been a place to go. But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere but the streets or the gutter. She was his wife, and she had married him willingly.

“What? Second thoughts, love?”

If only he didn’t smile so hatefully, knowing her every thought, reading her mind! Locking her jaw, she released the covers and fell back against her pillow. She crossed
her arms over her chest, and her eyes snapped with the glow of the fire as she stared at him.

“I have no second thoughts.”

“I see. You have been breathlessly anticipating this moment for many a lonely night?”

“I have no second thoughts.”

“Good.” His smile faded. He wrenched the covers from the bed, dropping them upon the floor. Then he moved away from her, sitting at the foot of the bed. He cast off his fine buckled shoes, pulled his shirt from his breeches, and cast it over his head.

Before he had come, the room had been cast in the shadows of the night. Now it seemed that there were candles everywhere, burning from the desk, from the trunk at the foot of the bed, from the mantel. The fire that had seemed to burn low in the grate had cast out only a pale glow, but now the logs snapped and crackled and hissed, sending out a fierce light. The draperies were pulled against the night sky, and the massive room seemed very small, for they were encapsulated within it, just the two of them. Light played and flickered over his bare back and chest, over muscle and sinew. His shoulders were very broad, and his back and breast were as bronze as his features, from constant exposure to the sun. She wondered briefly how he had come to such dark color upon his chest. She bit softly into her lower lip to keep from shivering as she watched him. The muscles in his arms were very large; they tightened and flexed naturally with his every movement, like those across his chest. They were the arms of a blacksmith, she thought, and not of a lord. All together, he seemed like some heathen then, so paganly bronzed and built, like one of the strange red men he so frequently defended from the new land across the Atlantic.

His shirt fell on top of the covers on the floor. He stood in his breeches and hose. A profusion of short, dark hair grew upon his chest, narrowing to a thin line as it tapered to his waistband, forcing her to wonder what lay beneath the band. She wound her fingers together tightly, praying for some miraculous salvation. She
burned one moment and lay cold the next. She willed herself not to bolt, for she was certain he would merely drag her down. She had only to imagine herself somewhere else and she could endure this. She had to endure it, for she had married him.

Paying her scant attention, he walked to his desk, moving silently, with a curious grace and ease, like a great cat in the night. With his thumb he smothered the candle there. He repeated the action with the candle upon the trunk.

And still, Jassy thought, the light blazed too brightly, and Jamie knew too well how to draw out torture. With each second that passed, she trembled more fiercely. She grew more aware of his strength and his manhood, and of one irrefutable fact—that she had married him. She had done so for a life of fine things, and in doing so she had given him the right to her.

He walked to the mantel, his footsteps silent, and smothered out the flame there.

And still, light poured from the hearth. From the dying fire lit against the chill rain of the day, sparks flamed and glowed, casting their glaze upon him. He rubbed the back of his neck, and for a moment Jassy actually thought that he had forgotten all about her.

He had not.

Standing there before the fire, he stripped away his breeches, and then his hose, and they lay where he had dropped them. He turned then to Jassy and came around to where she lay, again his stride so silent, as if she were being stalked, and indeed, she believed that she was. She longed to run. She had to keep reminding herself that she had nowhere to go. She wondered if there was anything that she could say or do to put the moment off, if she could not plea or beg or seek some gentle spot within his heart. She wanted to keep her eyes level with his, but she could not. They fell against the length of him, and her cheeks burned. His stomach was flat and hard, with the delineation of tight muscles. His thighs were long and as hard as his arms, his calves shapely. The trail of dark hair that tapered to his waist tapered below it, too,
then flared again to a thick nest, and from that nest his male shaft protruded like a blade—strong, bold, and sure. He approached her with no hesitance and no modesty, but with firm and unfaltering purpose.

He did not smile. There was no mockery to him then, and neither was there humor. He planted his hands upon his hips and stared down upon her coldly. “Off with the gown.”

She backed herself against the bed as best she could. She willed her fingers to cease trembling, but they would not. She hated his proprietary tone of voice, and she was suddenly determined that she would fight him.

“If you had the least bit of care, milord, you would not force the issue this evening.”

“What?”

“Perhaps in time—”

“Get the gown off, milady. Now.”

“Robert Maxwell would never have behaved so crudely! He’d have given his bride the time to know him.”

“Madame, you know me, and you do know me well! So your dreams are of Robert Maxwell still. Then know this, Jassy. I am not Robert Maxwell, and if naught else at the end of this evening, you will know that for a certainty.” His words were clipped; a pulse ticked in his throat. She thought that she had seen him angry before, and yet this sudden wrath he unleashed seemed more terrible than any ire she had provoked in him before. In fear, she lashed out.

“You have the manners and finesse of a wild boar,” she told him scathingly.

There was no challenging him. “And you, my dear,” he said, leaning over her, his palms upon the headboard on either side of her head, “have the scruples, manners, and morés of a London slut.”

Jassy cried out, lifting her hand against him in fury. She caught his cheek, and the mark of her fingers burned brightly against it. His lip tightened, and in a split second he wrenched her to her feet. She was barely standing before the bodice of her sheer white gown was
caught between the power of his strong bronze hands and ripped asunder. She swore as the soft material fell to her feet and they were left naked together. She slammed her hands against his chest, as he lifted her into his arms, and the ruthless darkness of his eyes blazed into her own as he walked the few steps back to the canopied bed.

“You bastard!” she cried out to him. “So this is nobility! This is the behavior of a lord!”

“You play the grande dame well, Jassy, very well. But in our particular circumstance I find your modesty a jest, and though your airs are very pretty and will certainly have their place, I promise that you’ll not bring them into this bed with you.” So saying, he tossed her upon it. There was nothing to grab to shield her from his relentless gaze, for the covers were gone. There was nothing, nothing at all. No barrier against his slow, critical scrutiny of every inch of her body. She lay still and miserable beneath his gaze.

“Have you no mercy whatsoever?” she demanded, “Are you forgetting that I—that I—”

“That you are innocent, my love? Oh, it is a strange form of innocence, but I do not forget it.”

“We could wait—”

“Preferably until I leave? Alas, no, love. I get little enough from this contract as it is. No wealth, no riches, no titles. Your dowry lies in the verdant field before me, and as it is all, I would avail myself now. So come. You are the consummate actress! Welcome your lord and husband, lady.”

“Oaf!”

Tears stung her eyes. She swore that she would not shed them. Then he came down upon her, once again moving as silently, as powerfully, as sleekly as a great cat. He stretched out his naked length upon her, taking her into his arms. She struggled against him in silence, her fingers upon the hot, muscled feel of his arms, her legs trapped beneath the casual curve of his own. She could not move him; she could only feel him more fully, his chest against her breasts, his limbs entangled with
hers; his sex, hard and prominent, seemed ablaze against the apex of her thighs. She went very still. He was all steel. He did, for a moment, let his indigo eyes blaze above her, then his fingers threaded into the hair at her nape, and his lips fell upon hers.

He did not hurt her. His mouth molded slowly over her own, and when his lips had possessed hers, he pried them open and filled her mouth with his tongue. A curious warmth filled her. The heat that he always brought about was like a fire that rippled and cascaded along her spine, but it entered into her, and it came from within her too. It swept from the liquid warmth of his tongue to her lips, and it came from the encompassing and volatile heat of his body, pressed hard to hers. It came from the pulsing masculine blade of him, as insinuative as the stroke of his tongue within her mouth. In and out and sweeping, and deep within her again, until she was breathless. He freed his hand from her hair. He cupped her breast as he kissed her, his fingers winding around the firm weight of it. His thumb grazed over the rose crest of it, and he rubbed that peak between his thumb and forefinger. She shuddered at the streak of sensation that bolted through her, from that touch, to the very core of her. A streak like a sizzle of lightning, so very hot.

She was terrified of that heat, frightened that it might seize her completely, and if it did, then she would have no defense against him ever again. He did not love her, he scorned her, he called her whore. She could not give anything to him. Nothing.

She twisted her lips from his and drew in a ragged breath. His face was over hers again, hard and taut and relentless, “Please!” she hissed. “Do what you will, but must … must you kiss me?”

He went dead still, then she felt the furious shudder that rippled through his hard body, and she saw the dark contortion of his features. She had wounded him, and for a moment she was glad, for she often hated his smugness.

Then she cried out, for as his eyes locked with hers, he
caught her knee, and with swift and brutal determination he parted her legs, and his weight fell between them. “We shall have it your way … milady,” he told her. “But have you this evening, I shall.”

His hand moved down the length of her, along her thigh. He lifted her legs high against him, and she swallowed sharply when she felt the touch of his hand intimately upon her. His eyes remained hard upon hers. She knew then that she could have cried out, that she could have whispered a single word, just one plea, and he would have taken her differently, more gently, tenderly, even. Perhaps. But she could not whisper that single word; she could not plead, and she could admit to nothing, give nothing. She would not ask for mercy. She clenched her teeth, her lashes fell over her eyes, and she shivered against the raw honesty of their bodies together, terribly aware of all of him, of the naked sexuality that lay between them. Still, she would beg no quarter, would seek no mercy.

And she would receive none. She felt the hard, pulsing shaft of his sex against her, then thrusting, plunging, deep, deep, within her. Blatant and bold and with no hesitation, he claimed her. Then she choked and screamed, and stretched and struggled to free herself, like a trapped and panicked animal, for she had never imagined such a searing pain. The size and breadth of him were too much; he would tear her apart.

Instantly he went still. She trembled, choking on her tears, wishing that she could free herself from him. He swore, and she did not know if it was at her, or at himself.

“Easy,” he told her softly.

“You are—killing me!” she told him brokenly. The intimacy was unbearable. He was a part of her. He lay atop her and within her. All that was personal and vulnerable lay naked and open to him. His breath mingled with her own, and their heartbeats were one upon the other.

“You will not die, I assure you. Women have been accommodating men since the beginning of time,” he
said wryly. She met his eyes again. He held himself very still, staring at her, and still he was there. She could barely meet his gaze, and neither could she look away. “Part your lips,” he told her.

“I—”

“Part your lips to mine. Part your lips, and lay still to my touch. Cease to fight me.”

He dipped his head, and the tip of his tongue flicked over her mouth and delved into it. Then the blaze of his kiss ran a path down the length of her throat. His tongue laved over the valley between her breasts, then circled the nipples, and then the full weight of each of her breasts. And all the while she felt him within her, still but pulsing with life, so alien, so ferociously alight with fire and promise. The pain was keen, and she lay still herself, with each new intimate assault upon her senses, with the practiced play of his mouth and hands upon her.