Secrets of a Midnight Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book One

by Jane Bonander

  He moved away, only to drop to his knees in front of her and press his face against her flat abdomen. Her hands touched his head, tentatively, gently, and Nicolas felt immense pleasure when she pressed him to her. He rubbed his mouth over her flannel-covered mound and inhaled her scent through the fabric, causing her to moan his name.

  Just before her knees collapsed, Nicolas stood up and caught her in his arms. She squirmed against him, her hands moving frantically over his face, his chest, anywhere she could reach.

  Nicolas glanced at the bed, but crossed to the large armchair instead. As he sat down he met her mouth with his and they kissed hungrily, voraciously, while his hand slid up inside her bare calf to her knee. He wanted to touch her everywhere. To feel her response. To feel her heat. To feel her readiness for him. When she moved her knees apart and scissored her legs anxiously, he stole higher into her warmth and met, again, the wetness of her secret place.

  She opened for him, inviting him in, and when he palmed her damp, musky mound, she pulled his head to meet hers and flicked her tongue into his waiting mouth.

  Nicolas savored her tiny, whimpering sounds. Her smell. Her wet, swollen readiness as he stroked the nerve-engorged bud that twitched against his finger. Her head dropped to his shoulder and her breath quickened.

  She ground her bottom against him, filling him with a rush of desire. But he controlled it, wanting only to stroke her until pleasure consumed her.

  Suddenly her breathing was erratic and she moaned low in her throat. Her swollen button quivered against his finger and she stiffened, releasing onto his hand a rush of warm wetness.

  Nicolas removed his hand from between her legs and brought it to his mouth. His eyes, intense and hot, never left her heavy-lidded ones as he licked her juices off his fingers.

  Now he wanted her in bed. He wanted to stretch out beside her and feel every part of her against his aching length. Effortlessly he stood with her in his arms and strode to the bed, laying her down gently before pulling off her gown. She moved languidly under his hot gaze, and when she reached out and ran her hand along the inside of his buckskin-clad thigh, he hardened and swelled.

  He pulled off his tunic and tossed it on the floor, his spirit soaring when her gaze raked his chest and her nostrils flared with desire.

  Suddenly, Anna sat up. A primitive rush of heat swirled in his belly when she boldly undid his buckskins and pressed her fingers inside his own musky darkness, against his rampant desire. She tugged at his breeches, pulling them down over his hips. Cool air hit him, intensifying his hunger, and when she brought his hard length to her face, pressing it against her mouth and her cheek, he clamped his jaws together in a valiant attempt to keep from growling in ecstasy. But he pulled away and looked down into her puzzled face.

  “Nicolas?” Her voice was a soft, quivering sound in the dark, quiet room.

  “I’ll never force you again,” he said, his chest heaving with need. “Tell me. You’ll have to tell me you want me.”

  She got up on her knees and wrapped her arms around his legs, a movement that brought her face to his thick, black bush. She rubbed her nose and her mouth against him and kissed him again and again. When she reached between his legs and fondled him, he put his hands on her cheeks and lifted her face toward him. “Say it!”

  He saw that her eyelids were heavy with desire. She was panting and her breasts were thrust toward his groin. Never had she looked more primitive. Never had she looked more desirable. “Say it!” he repeated, his voice a harsh whisper.

  She looked straight at him. “I want you.”

  His soul soared. Her voice was strong, certain. There had been no hesitation, no wavering, whimpering plea. He felt her hand on his root, slowly moving the skin back and forth, pushing him toward his peak.

  “Enough!” he rasped, tumbling onto the bed and pinning her beneath him. No further foreplay was necessary. Her legs came around his back and her arms around his neck, pulling him close, guiding him inside. Once there, Nicolas began his quest for release, not only from his transitory, volatile lust, but from his spiritual emptiness.

  They were both hot and needy. Nicolas trapped the whimpers of ecstasy that rose from Anna’s throat by clamping his mouth over hers. He pumped into her, thrusting deep, feeling her nails dig into his buttocks as her body stiffened beneath him. Again and again he felt her come, until finally his own lust ripened into clamoring passion and he released his powerful seed inside her.

  He lay panting on top of her, resting the bulk of his weight on his elbows. Her hands stroked his shoulders and his back, and finally came to rest on his buttocks. He ached anew when she pulled him against her. He rolled over on his side, bringing her with him, but he was reluctant to pull himself out of her. It felt right, and the reality confused him. He reached down and lifted one of her legs over his, meshing them even closer together.

  Her hand left his back and wandered slowly up to his neck. She combed her fingers through his hair, her soft touch reaching into his heart and warming his soul. She pulled her head back slightly, then gently kissed the scar on his cheek, leaving combative feelings of chaos scrambling his brain.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. Dammit, but he hurt! His insides were knotted and twisted with memories of an old flame—one who had teased and taunted until he’d been driven by his need to possess her. Even so, he’d had some control over his feelings for Sarabeth. He’d been able to keep a part of himself from her. He’d had to, or she’d have destroyed him. But he’d had no control tonight. He’d gone into the den of this lioness, knowing she would pull every emotion from him. But he’d been too far gone to care. Never had he felt the itching, aching, throbbing need he’d felt tonight. He couldn’t fight something he wanted this desperately.

  Anna stirred against him, her flattened breasts moving slightly over his chest. He looked down at the top of her head, then toward the window. Was he doomed to forever want a woman like this? A fair-haired, pale-skinned woman? What was it about them that drew him into their soft, seductive webs?

  He felt himself harden inside her. Anna’s tiny gasp of pleasure flooded his senses as she rotated her hips against him. He pictured the soft, sweet fur that covered her secret place as she moved back and forth against his own coarse hair, and desire sprang free again. Still facing one another, he brought her thigh high on his hip and rocked against her mound. Their breath intermingled, becoming tangled gasps of ecstasy as their pleasure increased and exploded into completion.

  Nicolas was satisfied. Temporarily. He knew he would stay and take Anna again and again, far into the night. But he was thankful he’d be leaving for the ranch before dawn. As much as he loved being with this woman tonight, he knew that with his stormy feelings, he couldn’t bear to face her in the morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anna woke up and curled into a ball. She was alone, and cold, for she’d never slept without anything on before. She slowly stretched her legs and winced at the tenderness between her thighs. She flopped over on her back and opened her eyes, peering into the dusky morning light. As she ran her hand across her bare breasts, she sucked in her breath and wondered how she could have enjoyed such pleasure from Nicolas’s touch when the sensitive skin around her nipples was so sore.

  How angry she’d been when he’d come strutting into her room as if he belonged there. But that hadn’t been her first thought. No. She’d sensed something was different about him immediately.

  She reached over and pulled the other pillow toward her, tucking it close against her naked breasts and inhaling traces of the smell—his smell—that was left behind on the pillowcase.

  As she clutched the pillow, she remembered her shame at having destroyed his mother’s dress. She still felt awful about it, wondering what she could do to make it up to him. She glanced at the chair by the table, where Nicolas had tossed the dress. Even though she wasn’t the most talented seamstress in the world, maybe she could repair it—somehow.

  She hugged
the pillow tighter, suddenly hearing in her mind the soft, loving way he’d spoken her name. His eyes had been brimming with pain before she’d reached up to touch the angry puckered scar that scored his cheekbone. Heat danced low in her belly when she thought of him on his knees, his proud head pressed against her.

  She rolled onto her stomach, listening to the beat of her heart in the quiet room, and thought about his answer when she’d asked him, once and for all, if he had fathered Cub.

  I told you months ago, he’d said sternly, I’ve fathered no children. The secret, romantic part of her had wanted to shout, But you have. You’ve fathered ours. The urge to tell him what she suspected had been strong, especially in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Fortunately, memories of just such a scene with David had whipped her back into reality. She was older now, and hopefully wiser. No more stars in her eyes. But there was no doubt in her mind that she loved Nicolas. And, in the secret part of her soul, she desperately wanted him to love her back. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t leave her as David had. But it was too soon to test him, she told herself. And maybe she wasn’t pregnant at all. Maybe she was worrying for nothing.

  But she did love him. How could she not, when he could be so gentle and wonderful? When her happy tears of release had dropped onto his chest, he’d been the sweetest, most caring man alive.

  Did I hurt you? he’d asked, after he’d taken her the last time. She had shaken her head. She couldn’t tell him that every part of her body had been awakened and fed, and would want and need to be nourished by him again and again. …

  Her breasts started to ache, and she rolled to her side. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the tiny bell that went off in her head, but she couldn’t. Her symptoms, negligible as they were, were obvious to her. They also frightened her.

  Pregnant. Her heart thumped with dread. She had to face the possibility, and if she was right, she’d have to get away somehow before she started to show. But Lord, it would be so hard to leave him. She could get by for many months if she wore her new crinoline under her old, tattered gowns, but eventually even that wouldn’t hide a growing stomach.

  Leaving the children would be almost as hard as leaving Nicolas. Sighing wearily, she tossed off the covers and slid out of bed. She crossed to the commode and washed her face. As she dressed for school, she decided she’d have to speed things up and get the children as far along as possible before she left.

  “ ‘I once knew a boy. He was not a big boy.’ ” Anna read the first line from the reader. “June? Will you read the second line, please?”

  June stood up and pressed the bare toes of one foot on top of the other. She pushed her long bangs to one side and cradled the reader against her stomach. “ If … he … had … been a big … boy, he … he w … w …’ ” She looked at Anna for help.

  Anna smiled. “It’s one of those nasty old words that doesn’t look like it sounds.”

  Two Leaf whispered something to the boy beside him, who nodded and grinned.

  “Two Leaf?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Would you like to share your secret with the class?”

  He looked at the floor. “It wasn’t a secret, Miss Anna. I was just telling Nolo about the word.”

  “What about the word?”

  He coughed, a sound so deep and loud, the other children laughed.

  “He sounds like he has a bullfrog in his throat,” one remarked.

  Two Leaf winced and rubbed his hand across his chest, then across his mouth. “The word June can’t get,” he said, sniffing and wiping his watery eyes with the back of his hand, “sounds like what this building is made of.”

  “Wood?” June piped up.

  Two Leaf nodded, then sneezed.

  Anna hid the pleasure she felt at Two Leafs ability from the class. He was by far the quickest, brightest student she had. But right now he sounded like he was coming down with something. She’d keep an eye on him.

  “June? Start again, please.”

  “ ‘If … he … had been a big boy, he … would have been … wi-ser,” ’ she finished, tossing Anna an enlightened smile.

  “Very good.” Anna returned the smile. ‘Two Leaf? Finish the last sentence, please.”

  Two Leaf coughed again, and Anna began to worry. His eyes looked glassy, and he kept clearing his throat. And each time he swallowed, an expression of discomfort crossed his face.

  “ ‘But he was a lit-tle boy. He was not much tall-er than the tab-le,” ’ Two Leaf read with ease.

  “Thank you, Two Leaf. Bring your reader up here, please.” When he approached her, Anna gave him a level look of concern. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

  He gave her a lethargic shrug, and she lifted the back of her hand to his forehead, then over his brown cheek. She pulled back, both frightened and surprised. He was burning up with fever.

  Leaning forward, close to his ear, she said softly, “Go to Shy Fawn. Tell her you don’t feel well.”

  Two Leaf nodded, gave her his reader and quietly left the classroom.

  After Two Leafs departure, the rest of the children seemed unable to concentrate, so Anna dismissed them.

  By nightfall over half of the children were running fevers. Shy Fawn’s initial pot of dogwood tea was long gone, and she was industriously stewing up another batch.

  Anna had recruited one of the older children’s help in cleaning up after the evening meal. With her arms elbow deep in warm, sudsy water, she scrubbed the dishes the sick children had used with a hard, bristly brush, stacked them in an Indian hemp net with a drawstring at the top, then lowered them into hot water. She was cleaning up after the other children, those who had not yet been struck with fever, when one youngster tugged at her skirt and wailed plaintively.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Anna squatted down in front of him and, without even thinking, touched his forehead. He felt cool. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Cub sleeping and won’t wake up to play with me.” He rubbed his eyes sleepily.

  She smoothed the cowlick at his crown. “Cub’s supposed to be sleeping. It’s your bedtime, too.”

  The child pushed her hand away. “No,” he whined impatiently. “Cub’s sleeping with Summer over there.”

  Alarm surged through her. He was pointing toward the path that led to the river. She called one of the other children over and asked him to put the boy to bed. As she hurried past Shy Fawn, she said, “I think you should come with me.”

  Something in Anna’s voice must have alarmed Shy Fawn, for she stopped what she was doing and immediately caught up with Anna.

  On a patch of grass near a scraggly pine tree just off the path to the river, Cub was sitting up, crying weakly. Next to him, Summer was lying on her stomach, her thumb in her slack mouth and her cheeks as red as manzanita berries.

  Anna’s stomach pitched downward and she swallowed her cry of alarm. Squatting down beside Summer, she touched the child’s warm face. Summer opened her eyes. They were shiny and glazed. Dread pulsed through Anna. Her arms and legs shook, and, with effort, she lifted Summer into her arms.

  She glanced at Cub but discovered he was already gone, swept away by his mother, who was half limping, half running toward the compound.

  Anna pressed Summer close to her chest and followed Shy Fawn. Cub was squirming and screaming in his mother’s arms. She turned and looked at Anna briefly, her face lined with worry.

  Anna knew they needed to help each other. She carefully laid Summer down on a fur blanket, hurried over and dipped the cup into the medicinal tea and went to Shy Fawn’s side. Shy Fawn gave her a look of surprise. “You hold him, I’ll try to get this into him.”

  Shy Fawn nodded, but even with the two of them, they couldn’t get Cub to drink. Suddenly she looked up, relief smoothing the worry lines on her forehead. “Pakami.”

  Anna understood immediately. Hurrying to the low wooden cupboard, she pulled out the jug of berry juke and poured it into the cup of me
dicine. As she rushed back to Cub, the juice slopped out onto her apron, leaving a wide red stain among the various other soiled spots on the once pristine cloth. Bending down beside the child, who was being held down by his mother, Anna gently coaxed him to drink.

  When Cub tasted the sweetened potion, he stopped crying and took a few sips before he violently turned his head away and clamped his mouth shut.

  She caught Shy Fawn’s frightened expression. “Will that be enough?”

  Shy Fawn shook her head. “He must drink at least half.” She rocked the boy back and forth in her arms and chanted. The sound was melancholy and sad, but slowly Cub relaxed and they were able to get half a cup of medicine into him.

  When Cub was settled, Anna lifted Summer to a sitting position and tried to waken her. “Summer? Sweetheart, wake up.”

  Summer began to cry, the sound heaving up from her chest in a croupy croak.

  Anna’s heart ached. “Sweetheart? I want you to drink some pakami for me. Can you do that?” Summer nodded weakly. She brought the cup to Summer’s fevered lips and held her breath as Summer began to drink.

  Summer looked up at Anna through black, glazed eyes. She continued to cough off and on, and the dry whooping sound brought tears of pity and fear to Anna’s eyes. She bent down and pressed her cheek against the top of Summer’s head, then put her hand at the back of the child’s neck to support her head as she drank. Summer made no effort to grab the cup and drink from it herself, a sure sign that she was sick.

  Throwing a glance toward the dormitory, Anna knew that Summer would be far more comfortable there, but she was reluctant even to lay the child down. She took the empty cup and put it on the low table next to her. Then she cuddled Summer against her chest, closed her eyes and prayed the fever would break by morning.