Teresa Medeiros (20 page)

He gazed down at her as he had on that first night, enchanted by the hint of a dimple in her cheek, her luminous eyes. Tonight she seemed more angel than nymph. Her nakedness stirred in him a fierce possessiveness centuries of civilized breeding should have exorcised. He had blunted his emotions for too long. This rush of lust and tenderness and primitive jealousy exhilarated him, making him feel reckless and drunk.

Emily drew in a shaky breath as Justin’s hungry gaze
raked her from head to toe, lingering at the nest of curls between her legs. “Justin?”

His gaze flew back to hers with a guilty haste she might have found amusing if she weren’t petrified with fear. “Mmmm?” he said dreamily.

“Are you sure you haven’t any Maori blood in you?”

His slow, wicked smile curled her toes. He reached down and popped open the first button of his dungarees in a gesture so totally out of character and so full of masculine swagger that she had to choke back a frantic giggle.

“Perhaps the Maori know something we don’t. Why should I be denied the pleasures of your succulent flesh?”

His shadow blocked the moonlight as he came down over her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. She could taste the salt of the sea on him. Her hands toyed with his hair, wrapping it around her fists as he moved lower to scrape his teeth against the peak of her breast and dip his tongue into the shy dimple of her navel. She moaned as he filled her, even as a void opened lower, making her clamp her thighs together against the blinding need.

As he slid his elegant fingers into the coarse silk between her legs, Emily felt the shock of it all the way to her soul. She knew it was wrong to let him touch her there—scandalous, forbidden. But he stroked her with agonizing tenderness and infinite patience, consuming her not in flesh, but in flame. Pleasure coursed hot and thick through her veins, drugging her, weighting her legs until they fell apart at the gentle insistence of his hands.

She had thought to use her body to enslave him, and here she lay, a chattel to his touch, writhing and begging for a fulfillment she couldn’t even name. The stars blurred to glimmering shards before her eyes. Her fingers knotted over the sleek muscles of his shoulders.

Justin parted the slick petals of Emily’s body as if she were the most fragile of tropical flowers. He rubbed his nose tenderly over her belly, basking in the intoxicating
fragrance released by his exploration. Driven by the soft whimpers escaping her throat and the dig of her fingernails into his back, he smeared her dew over the delicate bud nestled in her curls, then pressed his finger deep into the very heart of her bloom.

She cried out.

Her tautness was irresistible. Justin had never felt such a thing, not even in the woman he had once planned to wed. It made his whole body shudder in anticipation even as it birthed a terrible suspicion in his sluggish brain. Lifting his head so he could watch her face, he slipped his finger out of her, then gently eased it back in. She winced and bit her lip to muffle a cry.

His spirits hovered somewhere dangerously between plummeting and soaring. With lumbering reluctance he relinquished his prize and straddled her, crawling up until he could flatten his palms in the sand on both sides of her head.

“Emily?”

Her eyes flew open and she started to find his face only inches from hers. An enchanting mask of pleasure flushed her cheekbones. “Yes?”

“You’re not nearly as bad a girl as you’ve led me to believe, are you?”

Her words tumbled out in nervous spurts. “Of course I am! All my teachers said I was horrid.”

He sighed. “Let me phrase that a different way. That compromising position you were found in with the gardener’s son—would you care to describe it?”

“Could we talk about this later?”

God, wouldn’t he love to! he thought. Much later. While he was offering tender ministrations to her ravished body. “No. We have to talk about it now. What sort of position was it?”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Oh, very well. He was lying on the ground all bloody and I was standing over him with a pitchfork.” Groaning, Justin dropped his
head to her breastbone. “He should never have stuck his tongue in my mouth. He was a most unpleasant boy. He had a tongue like a grub worm.” She gave his hair a nervous pat. “I didn’t kill him, you know. I only wounded him.”

Justin feared his own wounds were mortal. He slowly lifted his head. “One more question, darling. How long have you been without a man?”

New patches of scarlet tinged her cheeks. The stubby silk of her lashes shuttered her eyes. “Eighteen years,” she mumbled.

He threw himself off her with a yelp that was half laughter, half despair. The stars winked down at him, giggling behind their brittle shells.

He chose his next words with elaborate care. “Do you even know how a man and a woman make love?”

She sat up, hiding her breasts behind the indignant curl of her knees. “Of course I do. A man puts his—”

Justin clapped his hand over her mouth. An anatomy lesson taught in Emily’s uncompromising terms was the last thing he needed. His fingers lingered against the softness of her lips. The shine in her eyes threatened to flow over into tears. How could he explain the agonized delight her sheepish confession of innocence was causing him?

All the masculine vanity and hypocrisy he despised welled up inside him, penetrating the haze of his desire and bringing the blurred visions of his heart into sharp focus: coaches rocking through the English countryside on a spring day, their lacquered roofs garlanded with flowers; bells ringing a joyful peal through the crisp air; Emily adrift in a cloud of white satin, her eyes dimmed not by tears but by the shimmering gauze of a veil.

Hope. Hope for the future.

He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Life had finally handed him something pure and fine, and he could not bring himself to tarnish it.

Her tears spilled over his fingers. “What is it, Justin? Don’t you want me?”

A groan escaped him in lieu of reassurances. If he dared take her in his arms, he’d never find the strength to let her go. He swung away from her, welcoming the gritty reality of the sand, praying it might dispel the heady enchantment of her nudity. He tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere—on the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven, on Bach’s
Concerto in D Minor
, on Chopin’s bloody
Funeral March
, but she was the only melody he could hear.

Emily stared at the bronze expanse of Justin’s back, cringing inwardly at her own pathetic question.
Don’t you want me?

As his damning silence stretched on, the shrill malevolence of another voice hissed in her mind.

He don’t want you. Nobody does
.

Doreen had been right. He always turned his back on her. But somehow this was worse. It left her shivering, abandoned to the night wind, naked and raw, shamed in both body and soul. The darkness no longer enveloped her, but hovered like a murky cloud, the stars shards of ice in an uncaring void. A vast loneliness rose like bile in her throat.

She swiped at her nose with the back of her fist as the familiar anger slammed like a shield over her pain. “There’s really no need to explain. My friend warned me most gentlemen find virgins a bore. They’re clumsy and predictable and they always cry at the wrong times.” She dashed a hot tear away. “Like now.”

Justin swung around, shocked by the bitter tenor of her voice. How could she believe he would think her clumsy? Or predictable? She was as clumsy as a she-tiger, as predictable as a summer storm at sea. He watched, paralyzed with disbelief, as she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her skirt.

“We’ll just forget this ever happened, won’t we? If you like, I’ll send your darling Rangimarie back to tend to
you. I’m sure she’s had scads of experience. Most of it with the almighty, all-potent Pakeha.”

She backed away without even bothering to cloak her nakedness with the skirt. Moonlight bathed her luminous skin and tipped her breasts with silver. Justin’s head reeled as he imagined her strutting into the Maori encampment in all her naked glory to deliver a scathing invitation to the unsuspecting Rangimarie. He eased himself to his heels.

She spread a hand as if to ward him off. “Don’t bother getting up. I don’t want to be any trouble. I never wished to be a burden to anyone. Especially not to you.”

She spun around to flee. Justin dove for her, his strength and grace serving him well. He tackled her easily, bringing her down in a soft explosion of sand. He hadn’t expected her to fight him, but she twisted in his arms like a wild thing, beating at his back with her fists, raking his neck with her fingernails. She swore at him through her tears, calling him names so vile they would have made even the worldly Nicholas blush.

Grunting with exertion, he caught her hands and pinned her beneath his weight. He kissed her damp lashes, the salty curve of her cheek, the corner of her trembling mouth. “Don’t you know, angel? Don’t you know how much I want you?”

A broken sob escaped her. He dragged one of her hands downward. She resisted him, but his greater strength, even in gentleness, bent her inexorably to his will. “Touch me,” he commanded hoarsely. “Touch me and then tell me I don’t want you.”

He pressed her hand inside his dungarees, cupping it around the full, rigid length of him.

The fury in her eyes slowly faded and shy wonder dawned. “Oh, my,” she whispered, her fingers enfolding him like velvety petals.

A spasm of exquisite agony made him shudder.

“Oh, my!” she repeated. He had finally succeeded in rendering her speechless.

The extent of her innocence washed over him like a spring rain. He pressed an adoring kiss to her freckled nose. “That, my dear, is by far the most gratifying response I’ve ever had from a woman.”

“A woman? Not a child?” She stroked him, enslaving him with her artless touch, her dark, questioning eyes.

He shook his head. “Not a woman.” He kissed away the clouds threatening to gather across her brow. “A goddess.”

He plunged his tongue into her mouth and drove himself hard into the sheath of her palm, allowing himself one moment of shameless pleasure. Then, ignoring her dazed moan of protest, he pulled her hand away and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip in turn, then her palm.

He met her gaze over her hand. “I need a gift from you, my goddess.”

“Anything,” she whispered.

The enticing visions that one word provoked almost wreaked havoc on his determination. He laced his fingers around hers and squeezed her hand. “Time. I need time.”

“Time?” Emily echoed. Her thoughts spiraled crazily.
Time?
How much time did this man require before he loved her? A decade? A lifetime? He’d already had seven years of her time. Time tucked away in a golden watch case. Time ticking away against his heart. Time frozen forever in a faded tintype of a happy child.

He stroked her hair away from her face. “I need time to get my life in order. I’ve been running from the past for far too long.”

Emily had to close her eyes at the irony of that. What would he do if she blurted out that the past was lying naked and trembling beneath him?

She opened her eyes, praying they would not betray her. “And when you get your life in order?”

“You’ll be the first to know. I promise you that.”

He kissed her, his mouth moist and sweet against her own. She hooked an arm around his nape, pressing him into her as if it might be the last kiss they would ever share.

Groaning, Justin pulled away. He rolled to his back, dragging her snugly into his arms.

“For a man who doesn’t like me, you’re being terribly kind,” she said.

He smoothed her curls and spoke without even a hint of humor. “I said I didn’t like you. I never said I didn’t love you.”

Justin couldn’t sleep. But this wasn’t the dream-plagued insomnia of a tortured man. His body tingled with the edgy excitement of fresh hope. It was as if a door had been thrown open, showing him a sunlit world brimming with plans and possibilities. He watched the encroaching dawn absorb the darkness, bleaching the sky to a pale rose. The sea was a glassy jade, smooth and unmarred like a mirror that has yet to know an ugly reflection.

He drew Emily deeper into his arms, savoring the lush feel of her bare skin against his own. She looked so terribly young with her lips parted in sleep. He felt more than a little depraved, wanting her so desperately, but still he could not stem the swift tide of desire rising in him. He swore softly under his breath.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon he would awaken like this every morning, snuggled with Emily on the … floor. The floor? He would have to build a bed for the hut immediately. Hell, he’d have to build a new hut. One with a separate room for Penfeld at a discreet distance from their own. And another room, airy with sunlight and decorated in chintz and dolls.

He felt a reluctant grin touch his lips. What would Emily say when he informed her they would start their new life with a daughter? She had professed a gruff dislike
for children, but he had seen how Kawiri and Dani adored her. She treated them like people, not dolls.

He traced her features with his loving gaze. She had taught him so much in so short a time. She had charged headlong into his life, meeting its challenges with verve and tenacity. He owed her nothing less.

He was done cowering from life. He was no longer going to hide from his family, his inheritance, or even from the child awaiting him in England. When they returned to the hut, he would pen a letter to his father, asking him to see to Claire Scarborough’s well-being until he could send for her. A hint of bitterness touched him. His father would probably have an easier time understanding if the child had been gotten off some mistress rather than from a pledge to a dying friend.

Emily stirred, moving her lips in a seeking caress against his chest. His doubts melted at her touch. His spirits soared, unfettered by guilt or remorse. It was as if her innocence had somehow washed away his own dark sins.

His thoughts, though, were far from virginal as Emily stretched with feline grace, giving him an untrammeled view of her delectable body, all vanilla cream sprinkled with cinnamon.