Witch's Harvest (16 page)

Even if she had been capable of a denial, the sheer physical evidence of her arousal would have belied her.

His hand had moved down to part her thighs, his fingers stroking slowly, tantalisingly across the moist, silken heat of her,

making her burn, making her melt. Keeping her, she began to realise, on some agonising, exquisite knife-edge of delight.

She tried to murmur a protest, but the hazy words were instantly muffled, lost beneath the pressure of his mouth. He was still in

control, still the master of the situation, she recognised dimly, instinct telling her that this would only last until she reached
whatever pleasurable goal he had set for her.

It was like the rhythm of some strange, secret dance, Abby thought wildly, trying to hang on to sanity, with its advance and

retreat, its demand and its aching, teasing withdrawal. Her body felt boneless, the blood in her veins as thick and sweet as

honey. She lifted languid hands, letting them drift over his shoulders and down his body, over the lean hips and taut, muscular

buttocks, offering of her own accord the intimacies he had once demanded from her.

Vasco lifted his head and looked into her eyes, his mouth shaping swift negation.

'Be still,
querida
,' he told her. He began to place a slow, shattering trail of kisses down her quivering body. He said huskily, 'This
time is for you.'

Even so she was totally unprepared for the ultimate sensation of his mouth against her.

'No!' The word was forced from her throat in shock and rejection as she tried unavailingly to push him away.

'
Sim'
His voice was gentle but inexorable. Abby could feel the outraged tension draining out of her as his lips and tongue took
their sensual toll, creating a new, almost terrifying intensity of response.

Every emotion, every nerve was stretched to breaking point. Her slim body was moving of its own volition, twisting helplessly,

as she wordlessly pleaded for release.

And just when she thought she could bear no more, she felt a soft, elusive trembling deep inside her. Her body lifted against

him, tautened as she focused on it, blind-eyed and lost, her whole being concentrated in astonishment and painful joy, as the

trembling deepened, took possession of her in a violent, rhythmic pulsation that threatened to tear her apart.

Delight reached some never-before-scaled peak, and she heard herself cry out. In the same second she was aware of Vasco

moving, lifting himself, sheathing himself in her, and clung to him, her nails scoring his shoulders as she experienced the swift,
heated thrust of his loins, her body writhing in a new, bewildering abandonment. Her anguished sob was stifled by his mouth as

his body shuddered in climax, her arms enfolding him with a kind of desperation as she tried to keep him with her, to make the

moment last for all eternity.

But nothing did, she realised a few moments later, as she lay beneath him, her body limp and pliant, feeling her heartbeat

steady, her breathing return to something like normal.

Did he know, she wondered, her mind hollow, just what he had done to her—how he had made her feel?

But of course he did, a small inner voice reminded her. He was a sophisticated and experienced man, not a raw boy. He had set

out quite cynically to possess her, to subjugate her to his will.

He had spoken of pleasuring her, she thought painfully, but not one word of tenderness, or love. But why should he? He knew

that she was in love with him, after all. He probably thought she would be grateful—that in future he could look forward to a

willing female body in his arms, even if she wasn't and never would be the woman of his choice.

But he had married her, and she was there, she thought, wincing. That was what it all came down to in the end. The passion

he'd coaxed from her with such patience was intended to enhance his own enjoyment of his marital rights, after all.

He had found their original bargain a sterile one, she thought almost detachedly. And she couldn't blame him for that. He was

virile, and shatteringly attractive, with a working life that was harsh and demanding. No doubt he considered he was entitled to

some relaxation—a convenient sexual release when the mood took him. And if he could engender more than mere passivity

from his substitute bride—well, she supposed he would regard that as a bonus.

But the last thing he would want was any avowal of undying devotion from her.
Don't ask for the moon
, he had warned her, after
all.

He moved slowly, sinuously. There was faint laughter in his voice, and another note, not so easy to interpret. 'Well, Senhora

Dona Abigail, can I hope you will welcome me home at night with a little more enthusiasm in future?'

"I wouldn't count on it,' Abby said raggedly.

Vasco lifted himself swiftly on to an elbow, staring down at her, the dark brows contracting ominously as he saw the tears on

her face.

He drew a sharp breath. 'What is this? Why are you crying?'

'Did you expect me to be—clapping my hands for joy?' Abby bit her lip. 'Or maybe you thought I was going to congratulate you.

Well, I do. You're a—marvellous lover, as I'm sure you already know. But sex without love, however expert, doesn't mean a

thing. It—it's little more than an insult.'

There was a terrible silence, then Vasco said evenly, 'You consider yourself—degraded perhaps by what has happened

between us?'

'Yes,' she said rather faintly. 'Yes—I do.'

This time the silence seemed endless. Then he said silkily, 'That is—unfortunate,
senhora
. But comfort yourself with this.

Having—unwrapped my gift, I find it is not altogether to my taste, and can quite easily be put aside.' He lifted himself to the side
of the bed and swung his legs to the floor, bending to retrieve his scattered clothes. As he straightened, he turned back to the

bed, taking the edge of the concealing sheet and stripping it away from her, before subjecting her shrinking body to one long,

lingering, comprehensive and contemptuous scrutiny. He said with harsh mockery, '
Boa noite, senhora
. I wish you sweet
dreams.'

He walked away from her across the room and disappeared into his dressing-room, slamming the door behind him.

Trembling, Abby turned over, burying her face in the pillow, her hands pressed convulsively over her ears. And knowing, even

as she did so, that the echo of that slammed door would reverberate in her mind until the end of time itself.

It was the most wretched night Abby had ever spent. She lay staring into the darkness, hurting, unable to find surcease in sleep,

and despising herself for her own vulnerability.

She tried to comfort herself that she had managed to retrieve some part of her self-respect, but failed. The price of her pride had
been too high, she thought, flinching from the memory of Vasco's scorn, the dismissive, arrogant gaze travelling over her

nakedness.

Eventually, weary beyond further thought, she cried herself into an uneasy sleep.

It was late in the morning when she woke, and the sun was pouring into the room through the open shutters. She opened her

eyes slowly and unwillingly, and found Vasco standing beside the bed, watching her.

Colouring painfully, she snatched at the sheet, dragging it almost to her chin, and saw him wince, an answering tinge of red

burning along his own cheekbones. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, distancing himself carefully from any physical

contact with her.

He said quietly, 'Abigail, I have come to ask your pardon.' He paused. 'The way I behaved last night—the things I said to you—

were quite indefensible.'

She said, almost inaudibly, 'It's all right.'

'How can you say that?' he demanded, a harsher note in his voice. Then he sighed, and looked away from her. 'You were, of

course, quite right. I can make no excuses for myself. Not for the first time, I allowed my—need for your body to take precedence

over my sense of decency. And to make love without love on both sides brings only shame on both sides. You should not have

needed to tell me so, and probably that is why I was so angry.' He gave her a swift, bleak look. 'So I ask you to forgive me—for

everything.'

Abby felt as if her heart was being wrenched out of her body.

Oh, please, she thought achingly. Oh, please can't you bring yourself to care for me, even a little bit? I love you so much, Vasco,
I'll make it enough. If you could only love me with a fraction of yourself, I'd make it last…

But she said nothing. She lay still, watching her hands gripping the edge of the sheet, the knuckles white with the tension she

dared not show.

There was a silence, then he said, 'Things cannot, naturally, continue as they are. We both need to think, to decide what is best

for the future.' His mouth tightened. 'I—I have to go to Manaus on business for a day or two. Perhaps, away from each other,

from the pressures that life here imposes, we will be able to see the situation with more clarity.' His smile was wintry. 'Maybe

even find a way of undoing the damage we have inflicted on each other.'

Her throat felt constricted. 'What—what do you have in mind?'

Vasco shook his head. 'We cannot talk now.' He glanced at his watch. 'Pedro Lazaro is waiting for me at the airstrip.'

No ordinary working gear this morning, she realised, but one of his elegant lightweight suits, coupled with a silk shirt and tie,

making the force of his dark good looks even more compelling. Desire uncoiled in her, stretched out like a greedy hand…

He went on, 'Whatever decision we make, Abigail, must be a mutual one, but it is impossible to go on as we are. You understand

that, don't you?'

She nodded wordlessly. He reached over and detached one unresisting hand from the sheet, raising her fingers swiftly and

courteously to his lips. '
Adeus
.'

At the door he paused, and she felt her heart lift in sudden, absurd hope. He said, 'Pedro brought the mail in with him. There is a
letter for you on the desk in the study.' He inclined his head with brief formality, and went out.

For the second time in only a few hours Abby watched a door close behind him, and this time there was a finality about it that