Whispers at Midnight (26 page)

“Ryne,” she whispered, not knowing whether
she spoke the words or merely thought them, “there have been no
others.”

She cried out. The pain was like the quick
thrust of a blade. She felt the jolt of surprise in Ryne’s body,
felt him hesitate for a moment, but he had used all his
self-control and now could not stop the madness that drove him. The
pain was brief, and as she felt him move within her, she forgot it
as the bloom of rapture started to grow. Slowly at first, she moved
her body to meet his, finding and learning the rhythm that made
them one.

He whispered her name, a pleading apology
where none was needed. She had wanted him, wanted this uniting,
glorious pleasure he was giving her. She gripped his shoulders and
half-lifted herself from the grass, her small tight breasts grazing
his chest as the turbulence raged.

Deep in her heart she felt the bloom of
another emotion and wondered if he knew the same sweet budding
within himself. And yet as she felt his power and strength she
could see a tenderness and wonder in his eyes that she knew sprang
from a seed newly planted in his heart.

She called his name, a silken cry of joy.
Her eyes widened at the blending then bursting flare of triumph
surging through her. He rose above her one last time and the
crescendo was complete, his body joining hers in a sweet infusion
of energy.

Still, like the lacey green-leaved branches
of the willow trees above them, they lay wrapped as if asleep in
each other’s arms.

Ryne, his breathing deep and slow, could not
remember such a contented, rapturous feeling after making love. He
had no wish to move or to probe his consciousness for the thoughts
waiting to end this feeling of ecstasy. It had been too sweet. It
had reached too deep. Indeed, knowing the intimate bounds of her
body had made him vulnerable and he felt as if a hand had latched
hold of something lost deep inside him. He did not want to explore
the meaning of what had changed. Not yet.

He held his eyes closed against the
moonlight, feeling the soft nymph-like creature half-captured
beneath him. Ryne nuzzled her cheek and buried his face in the
soft, fragrant hair spread across the grass.

Amanda moaned lightly and pressed her lips
against his neck. He had done more than take her virginity. He had
penetrated her spirit and broken down the barrier she had wrapped
herself in. Never had she meant to give herself so completely to a
man. And now here she lay, sated and satisfied, in the arms of a
man who had shown her more contempt than caring.

What could she expect from him now? Stronger
contempt? Or would he find, as she had, that his feelings had
changed entirely? Even now she felt herself reliving the memory of
his kisses, those deep, probing kisses that had demanded all of
her.

“Ryne,” she murmured, and felt his lips
touch her throat like a whisper. “I want to know . . .” His hands
skimmed over her hips and rose to tease her taut, dusky
nipples.

“Let it wait, my sweet. Let it wait.” He
gathered her in his arms and rolled to his back. “Kiss me now.”

She pressed her lips to his, caressing his
mouth first and then deepening her kiss as new currents of desire
heated her blood. He caught her waist and pulled her forward, his
mouth fondling the small globes now within his reach and bringing
the nipples to tight, pink peaks.

“You are divine,” he whispered. “So small
and perfect, like a little porcelain doll.”

His hands were as gentle as his voice,
searching and finding all the pleasure points on her body. She
found herself again a willing victim of his lovemaking, totally and
blissfully bewitched by the sound of his voice and the play of his
hands on her skin. Ryne pulled her close, and when she slipped her
hands to his thighs, she felt the lusty hardness of his manhood
beneath her.

He quickly brought her up astride him, and
as his hands explored the soft lines of her back, she massaged the
strong tendons of his chest and shoulders. The peaks of her
breasts, hard as pebbles, seared his hair-roughened chest when she
bent to kiss him.

Ryne struggled to stay in control. But her
writhing above him was more torment than he could take. With a
groan he gripped her by the waist and lifted her a few inches.
Passion pounded the fiery blood through his veins as her hand
sought his manhood and positioned him. Their eyes met, the blue of
his mirroring the green glow of passion in hers.

He needed this second time to prove he was
not bewitched. He eased her down, penetrating her satin warmth and
shattering his will into a thousand burning fragments. As her body
melted around his, he forgot his purpose and knew only the pure,
explosive pleasure of her warm, soft flesh. He was swept over by a
blinding wave of passion and no longer cared for anything but to
make her pleasure match his.

“Amanda, love,” he whispered thickly,
roughly. “What charm, what spell gives you this power over me?”

She smiled and shook her head. Her fingers
made slow circular strokes on his throat. If there was a spell,
then he had cast it. She was helpless, consumed by her desire for
him, her whole being flamed with it.

As they rocked together, his hands helping
to lift and lower her, she felt the wildest, hottest of fires
rising inside her. Her nails clamped into his shoulders. She saw
his eyes flash, felt the tremors in his body and the spasmodic
grasp of his fingers on her flesh.

A moan of ecstasy tumbled from her lips. Her
world went spiraling as she rode the flaming tide of passion that
raged through them both.

***

The moon rose high, a luminous
mother-of-pearl disk in the deep blue sky. Crickets and frogs made
music of their night calls. Amanda stirred first, feeling the
coolness of the night on her bare flesh. She lifted her head from
Ryne’s chest, thinking he still slept.

“Have you rested enough?” he asked.

Her eyes opened wide and questioning. She
thought his voice as cool as the night air. Could her tender,
passionate lover have cooled so quickly?

“I need my clothes.” She crossed her arms
over her chest and rubbed at the gooseflesh that appeared on her
skin.

Ryne got to his feet and helped her up.
Holding her hand, he led her to the spot where they had disrobed.
Her clothes lay in a rumpled heap by the riverbank, wet and
wrinkled, and she knew from the sight of them that they would feel
no better than they looked. While she got her chemise and turned it
right-side-out, Ryne found his breeches and donned them. He left
her to dress alone while he fetched his boots and bridled the team
of grays.

He led the horses to the river’s edge for a
drink and after checking the harnesses and buggy, rehitched the
team and drove them back to the road. What the devil had happened
to his reason? The last bloody thing he wanted was to fall under
the spell of this lovely little witch. How had it happened? No
woman had ever made him feel this way. It was dangerous. It was an
interference. He couldn’t let it happen.

Barefoot and disheveled in her soiled dress,
Amanda accepted his assistance into the buggy. In the pale
moonlight she could see the tense line of Ryne’s jaw and the
tightly clenched hand which held the reins. He did not look at her
and he did not speak.

She felt his silence like a biting, icy
wind. He despised her. She had given herself to him and he despised
her for it. What could she say to him now? Where were the words
that might make him feel differently? An ache started in her heart
that made her think it would break. Could she have been so
wrong?

There were to be no answers to her
questions. She made one attempt at conversation, and getting only a
shrug from Ryne, decided to keep quiet. His face was set like
stone, and the deep lines in his brow gave him a look of anger. His
single attention to her was to pull a blanket from beneath the
buggy seat and wrap it around her shoulders.

But there was no easing of his mood.

“Drink this,” he said gruffly, seeing how
she shivered in her damp dress. He opened a silver flask and thrust
it into her hand. “It’ll keep you warm on the ride home.”

Hesitantly she lifted the flask to her lips.
Brandy, by the smell of it. She took a few sips, letting it burn
slowly down her throat. A moment later she felt the heat spreading
through her. He had been right. She needed it.

Ryne did not speak again until they were
almost to Wicklow. By then he had been silent for so long that
Amanda jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice.

“I applaud you, Amanda,” he said with a dark
note of warning in his voice. “You have found in me a weakness no
other woman ever dreamed was there.” He laughed harshly.

“You have baited the fox with your cunning
ways and caught him in your trap. But don’t think you have tamed
that beast yet, my sweet.”

Amanda had suffered enough of his sulking
and his sarcasm. She hated having what had been the most beautiful
experience of her life turned into an evening of regrets. She had
hoped for too much in wanting the experience to matter to him as it
did to her.

“Must you speak in riddles, Ryne? I have no
notion what you are talking about,” she snapped.

“I am talking about my brother and myself.
You read us both well. I thought you had set your cap for him, and
I meant to save him from you. You made me think he had bedded you,
and being the ‘gentleman’ he is, a wedding would inevitably follow.
But I knew he would never take a bride who had shared my bed as
well, so I—”

Amanda stiffened. “You are telling me you
planned what happened tonight so your brother would not wed
me?”

“In exacting terms, yes.”

Her heart felt as if it came crashing in.
Their lovemaking had been a dirty, devious trick Ryne had planned.
She floundered for a moment, her lower lip quivering, a dull
agonizing ache sweeping over her. But she was determined not to let
him see her pain. She whipped her head around to face him
defiantly.

“You are a pompous boor, Ryne. What has your
quarrel with your brother to do with me? And what concern is it of
yours whom he marries?”

Ryne had seen the despair in her face, but
he steeled himself against being drawn deeper into her tender
trap.

“My brother needs protection against
himself,” he answered harshly. “He is a fool about women, and even
a poorer judge of them. In no time you would have wormed your way
through his fortune. Though I can’t abide him, I wouldn’t stand by
and see you wreak your havoc on his life.”

He stopped the carriage near the front steps
of Wicklow. Amanda’s tiny fists were trembling. A short time ago
she had thought she loved this man, this cold, arrogant bastard who
thought he could dally with people’s lives.

Her voice shook with anger and contempt.
“There is only one fool in your family, Ryne. And it is not
Gardner.” With that she jumped down from the carriage and ran up
the steps, speeding through the front door and slamming it in her
wake.

“Amanda!” Ryne shouted after her, but she
did not turn back. With an angry curse he snapped the reins and
drove the team to the stable. It soothed him a little to brush down
the grays and clean the harness after he had put the buggy away.
But nothing, he thought, short of death, would ever calm the
tempest that had started in his heart tonight on the riverbank.

***

“You are not looking so well, my dear.”
Cecil Baldwin greeted Amanda with a jovial hug and a quick kiss to
the cheek.

It was early afternoon. She had stayed in
her room until she was certain Ryne was gone. She had slept
fitfully, tormented by her own rampaging thoughts and the haunting
distant whisper of her name in the deepness of her dreams. Twice
she had awakened certain that someone was there. But each time
there had been nothing but the long dim shadows cast by the
moonlight.

Gussie brought the usual toast and tea at
breakfast, but even that meager fare had been too much for Amanda’s
dwindling appetite. She needed to talk to someone, and for that
reason was doubly glad to see Cecil Baldwin. Talking with him might
help get her mind off last night’s catastrophe.

“I slept poorly,” she answered, knowing
there was no way to shield her tear-reddened eyes from his view.
“May I get you a sherry, Mr. Baldwin?”

“That would be delightful, but in a moment.
Emma Jones and Trudy will arrive within the hour. Meanwhile I
insist you tell me what is the matter. A poor night’s sleep should
not sap the color from your cheeks nor redden your eyes. Why, you
look as if you have had a shock. Tell me, Amanda, have you been
frightened?’

“Oh no,” she answered quickly. The eerie
whispers she had heard in her dream were not what had left her
trembling beneath the covers. It was Ryne Sullivan she could blame
for her distress. “At least not recently,” she went on. “At first I
found the house disturbing, but now I hardly notice the creaks and
groans and the strange sounds at night. We are getting used to one
another, Wicklow and I.”

“Humph. I am not convinced,” Cecil said
emphatically. “I believe the atmosphere of this house is taking a
toll on you. You will develop a nervous disposition staying here if
you are not careful. Really, this monstrosity ought to be torn
down.”

“Oh no, Mr. Baldwin. You mustn’t even say
such. I do love Wicklow, just as it is.”

“Well—” He rolled his round eyes upward.
“—it is beyond me how anyone could care for this mausoleum. The
house is an affront to style and dignity.” He coughed. “But don’t
you worry, little one. Once Emma and Trudy are here, you will fare
much better.”

She smiled. “I’ll be glad when they have
come. It has been more difficult than I thought, being alone.”