“It is a way to start,” he commented dryly. But his eyes were silver and blue flame and a vein ticked rampantly against his throat. She caught her breath, but then her heart fell again and she defied.
“Then you would call me a whore!” she retorted. “Giving in for—for what I might get in turn.”
“The words are yours,” he said.
“Oh! Never! Eric—”
“Shh! The words do not matter, truth does not matter, nay, not even love! You are my wife, and I have been away too long, and, lady, this thing between us is ever fierce, and I will not be denied.”
His lips pressed against hers with searing hunger, stealing away her words. She tried to twist her head, but his hands were powerful upon her head, holding her still to his leisure. She felt the heady fullness of his tongue as he played against the barriers of her lips and teeth and filled her mouth, seeking and giving, bringing a rush of heat to rise within her. She tried to push against him, but he caught her hands, and laced his fingers with hers, pinning them to her sides. She tossed and turned and writhed, and felt the fires burning ever more brightly, more fervently about her. She sank into the heat, into the desperate rise of passion, where thought knew no place and the heart and hunger ruled all.
She loved him. Pride be damned, for it was lost, cast along with dignity upon the shores of emotion, for come what may, in truth she could not deny him, nor herself.
Her hand was free. He stroked her open palm with his fingers, and then his hands moved over her, trembling, and yet with sureness and relentless hunger. He cupped her breast, and explored her hip, and his lips left her mouth to trail against her throat and breasts. She gasped with the startling pleasure as he took the rosebud of one crest within his mouth, teasing with his teeth and bathing it again and again with the lavish sweep of his tongue. Her hands were upon him, she realized. Her fingers fell upon his shoulders, and she felt the ripple of his muscle beneath the fabric of his uniform. She threaded her fingers into his dark hair and marveled at the texture of it. And still he moved against her.
“Give to me, my wife, my love!” His whispers coursed her ears and the heat of them filled her with heightened excitement. “Fill me with your beauty, with the magic of the night.…”
The threat of war receded, and battle was forgotten. The night breeze rushed in with its scent of river salt, caressing her flesh where he did not, but nothing else of the world could touch her. It had been too long since they had lain like this, lovers entwined. She closed her eyes, and he moved against her. He shifted his weight and stroked her abdomen and her hip and the flame trail of his kiss followed along. The stroke of his lips and teeth and tongue fell again and again upon her. She tried to thread her fingers into his hair, to somehow capture the heat and flow of passion, but it was far beyond her. She trembled at his touch, she moved as he manipulated her, feathering his fingers down the length of her spine, gently nipping against the rise of her buttocks, lying her back down again to bathe her breasts anew with the hot liquid tempest of his mouth. He rose then, and she watched him with half-slit eyes, certain that he would cast aside his uniform and come to her. And she would watch him as he shed his clothing, and came back to her, walking with his particular grace and determination, almost like a wildcat assured of his every movement.
He did not cast aside his clothing then, but caught her foot and delicately teased the arch and heel and toes. Then his tongue ran a straight trail down her calf and along her inner thigh, and even as she gasped he wedged the hardness of his shoulders there and delved his kiss into the very center and secret place of her most haunting desire. She bit her lip, longing to cry out. She tugged upon his hair and her head began to thrash. Sweet waves of ecstasy wracked her, sweeping through her body like waves upon the shore. She fought him, yet her head tossed upon the pillow and wild cries escaped her as her body surged of its own accord against her. He led her on and on, and when she thought that she could stand no more, he was gone again.
And this time it was to shed his clothing.
Naked, he came back to her. His shaft as hard as steel, he thrust within her, and was welcomed by the warm encompassing sheath of her body. The waves began again, they came to crest and build and crest again with each stroke of his body. He rose high above her and his eyes met hers, dark with passion, or with anger, she knew not which. Did he make love…or hate? She did not know. But the passion could not be denied. It stormed upon them, and music of their every breath and whisper and cry. It made the air a silken cloud, it made the night a bit of magic in a world gone destitute of fantasy. Still his eyes held her, and still he stroked within her, urgency filling him. The waves coming upon her seemed to rise and shatter and sprinkle down again in tiny flakes of silver rapture. Again and again climax seized her, and she shuddered and trembled and shook in his arms. He thrust again with vehemence, and she felt the startling heat and liquid as his seed rushed into her, filling her.
He touched her cheek and tenderly kissed her lips, then he fell from her, coming to her side.
Moments of silence passed. Then she started to speak, and he touched his finger to her lips. “No. Not now. Not tonight.”
“Eric!” she cried. “Please listen. I—I love you!”
Tension filled him, the muscles of his arms tightened and bulged and his features constricted until they were taut and anguished. She thought that he would strike her then, or that his fingers would wind around her throat and crush away her air.
“By all the saints, madame, play your games no more this night!” he swore violently.
“But it is no game, no ploy, no taunt!” she insisted, challenging his anger. “Eric!” She choked upon his name, tears rising to her eyes.
He exhaled, forcing his body to ease, and he shook with a sudden venom. “Would God that I could believe you!” he said, his voice low, harsh.
“Please…”
“No! No more tonight! If you would give love, lady, then prove love.”
And so she fell silent, and in seconds he let out a hoarse cry, pulling her close once again. And after the breeze had come in to gently cool the heat that had remained so slick and damp upon their flesh, he kissed her upper arm and then began to make love to her again. This time she touched him in turn. Freely. Allowed herself to stroke the hard muscles of his arms and chest, the lean sinew of his hips, the tightness of his buttocks. She teased and seduced, taking him into her hands, sweeping her hair over his naked flesh and touching him with the tip of her tongue, with her kiss, the lash and lave of her tongue.…
When the tremors of ecstasy faded next, he held her. And in the darkness and quiet of the night, sleep, deep and dreamless, came to them both.
When she awoke, he was dressed again. A new white shirt, clean white breeches, his doublet and his frock coat in blue and red, his cockaded military hat upon his head. He stood by the window, as if he waited for her to awake.
She knew instantly that things had changed, that the night was over. She drew the covers against her breasts, and she stared at him. He turned slowly toward her. The eyes that fell upon her were the eyes of a stranger, deep, dark, and distant.
“You’re leaving,” she said.
“We’re going after Lord Dunmore. You knew that.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Am I—am I to be a prisoner here?”
He shook his head. For a moment the beginnings of elation filled her. If they had time…if they just had time, perhaps there could be a separate peace between them. Perhaps she could explain that her heart had not changed, but that she was no longer fighting. She was his wife and would take his side. She could even learn to be a patriot.
