After spending an agreeable morning with Hans and making plans to inspect several innovations that had been made in his absence the next day, he returned to the house in an amicable frame of mind, denying vehemently to himself that he was looking forward to seeing Nick in some of the finery he had brought for her. As it was, he returned to the house and was preparing to go upstairs and change for lunch just as Nicole was coming down. Catching sight of each other, for a long second, they froze—Nicole about halfway down the stairs and Christopher with one foot resting on the first step.
Nicole’s face paled; she was aware of breathlessness at the unexpected sight of him, and Christopher couldn’t hide the quick flame that turned his eyes bright gold as he stared at the lovely picture she made in the amber-bronze gown.
They both recovered quickly, although a muscle still jumped in Christopher’s cheek as he drawled, “Very nice. You’ll do me credit, m’dear.”
Forgetting her role, Nicole spat, “I wouldn’t count on it. Fine feathers do not necessarily make fine birds.”
Christopher grinned. “In your case they make a delectably fine…er…bird.”
“Ladybird, don’t you mean?” Nick shot back. “A soiled dove to be exact.”
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “That will be enough! You know full well that you are not supposed to know about ladybirds or soiled doves. Remember it.”
Coming slowly down the stairs, Nicole approached him, and when their eyes were level she smiled sweetly and murmured, “I wonder whose fault it is that I know of such things? Who soiled the dove?”
Christopher caught her wrist and pulled her abruptly against him. They both were angry now, and Christopher was also fighting the sharp desire to take her to his bed. Controlling himself, barely, he snapped in a low tone, “Talk like that in front of anyone else and you’ll be ruined.” Because he was moved by the sight of her and the memory of her kissing Allen in the gloom of the prison, he had an urge to hurt and added grimly, “And Allen will die.”
“Bastard!” Nicole hissed under her breath, her eyes full of fury as she struggled to free her wrist.
Disgusted as much with himself as the ugly scene, he released Nicole’s wrist, growling, “Have I made myself clear?”
Glaring at him and rubbing her wrist, Nicole muttered, “Very.”
Christopher smiled so coldly that Nicole ached to slap his handsome face, and he murmured, “Then I trust you will watch your unruly tongue in the future?”
Ignoring him and too angry to care what he thought, she spun on her heel and stalked off, her back held very straight. For a moment Christopher stared after her, admiring the slight sway to her skirts as she walked away from him. Shrugging, he ran up the stairs and changed from his buckskins to a pair of buff breeches and an expertly cut coat of Spanish blue. Higgins, in his newly resumed role as Christopher’s valet, slipped a pair of black Hessian boots on Christopher’s feet.
Glancing at him, Christopher asked, “Have you settled in? Everything satisfactory?”
A grin splitting his weather-seamed face, Higgins answered cheerfully, “Right and tight, sir! It’s good to be back, and I’m downright pleased that we won’t be going back to sea. I’m getting a little old to be traipsing all over the world.”
Christopher smiled, a smile few people ever saw. “Well don’t get too used to domesticity, my friend. Remember we leave for England in six weeks, perhaps less.”
Higgins nodded, but his grin faded and his face clearly revealed his doubt. “Do you think it’s wise, sir? We’re still at war with England and you and I are still technically deserters. I doubt your uncle is going to be pleased when you show up.”
“I’m aware of the danger from my uncle Robert, Higgins. But it is our duty to return Miss Ashford to her home. As for the war, remember it is no more popular in England than it is here. We’ll manage to brush through unscathed.” Christopher said the words easily, glad that he had not told Higgins the real reason behind their trip to England. What Higgins didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, might, in fact, save his life, if by some mischance Christopher’s mission were discovered and he was captured.
Unaware of the thoughts running through Christopher’s brain, but knowing from experience that there was no turning him from his path once his mind was made up, Higgins shrugged and began picking up the buckskins that had been thrown across a chair. “As you say, sir, but I don’t like it.”
Christopher didn’t like it either—for several reasons, and not all of them concerning the risks involved—but he refused to think about it.
In the intervening time Nicole managed to cool her sudden temper and she was as furious with herself as she was with Christopher. She had meant to be calm and polite, and then what had she done but lose her composure at the first sight of him. Pacing the library with long unladylike strides, she proceeded to give herself a mental scold that would have done a fishmonger’s wife proud. Her temper cooled and it was in a mood of icy politeness that she joined him in the dining room for luncheon.
She ate in frozen silence, and Christopher’s remarks elicited only monosyllables. By the time they had finished the last course, Christopher was in a fine rage. Pushing his chair back with unnecessary force, he rose to his feet and snapped, “I’d like a word with you—in the library. Now!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nicole murmured, “but Miss Mauer and I will be engaged this afternoon. Perhaps this evening before dinner?”
Christopher crossed over to her in two lithe strides, jerked her out of her chair, and dragged her past the astonished Sanderson into the library.
Her bosom heaving with suppressed emotion, she glared up at him. Fighting to maintain her cold facade, she asked, “Was that necessary? You expect me to act like a lady, but your actions are hardly those of a gentleman.”
“If you wish me to act the gentleman, don’t treat me as if I don’t exist. I don’t expect you to be pleased with the situation, but you had better learn to afford me the bare courtesy of a guardian. I do not expect your gratitude, but I do expect a civil reply and not conceited bitchery.”
Biting her lip with mortification, Nicole turned her back on him. “I’m sorry if you don’t like my manners,” she said tightly, “but you must remember that it is a long time since I have been part of polite society.”
“Your manners are acceptable, my dear. It’s your attitude that needs changing,” Christopher commented dryly, his anger fading as quickly as it rose.
At his words Nicole looked at him. “My attitude is no more than you deserve. I do not forget that you hold Allen’s life over my head—nor what has gone between us.”
Christopher walked up to her and took her by the shoulders. Staring into her angry face, he asked slowly, “Do you think that I enjoy holding Allen as a weapon against you?”
Nicole was suddenly breathless and frightened at the surge of emotion that rushed through her at his touch.
“Do you?” he demanded again.
“I don’t know!” she cried.
Her answer afforded him no pleasure. “You leave me little choice,” he admitted bitterly. “You must obey me, without question—and Allen seems to be the only person who means anything to you.” Accusingly he added, “You were even willing to whore for him.”
Nicole flinched but her eyes met his. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said quietly. “Nor that you tricked me. Do you think that I will ever forget what has happened?”
“No,” he agreed in a flat voice. “You won’t forget, but”—and he gave a mirthless laugh—“neither will I.”
He released her and Nicole instantly moved away. For a second he stared at her, a brooding expression in his eyes., “Are you going to meet me halfway,” he asked finally, “Or do we continue this constant war?”
“I will try to treat you as my guardian, but don’t expect me to like it,” Nicole conceded cautiously.
Christopher nodded. “That will do. More would be stretching your limits of acting.”
&nb
sp; For the remainder of the day Nicole drifted in a confused haze. She could not understand him—one minute he was cold and demanding, then he would ask for her opinion as if it mattered to him.
Christopher was leaving for New Orleans on Wednesday, and they spent the few days before his departure treating each other with a meticulous politeness.
On the morning before his departure, after their breakfast, Nicole asked a question that had been at the back of her mind for some time. “What does Mrs. Eggleston know of me? How have you explained my presence to her?”
“I haven’t.”
Startled, Nicole’s eyes flew to his. “You mean she doesn’t know that I am here?”
“No, not yet. But she will before she arrives. I intend to tell her a bit of the truth—that you disguised yourself as a boy and acted as my cabin boy until just recently, when I discovered your secret. Naturally,” he said in a mocking tone, “once I knew who you were, I immediately took steps to set things right—hence your present situation.”
Bewildered, Nicole stared up at him. “But—but,” she stammered, “what of the tale you told me—that I’ve lived with her in Canada?”
“Hmmm. Don’t worry. Eventually Mrs. Eggleston will support that entire fabrication, but for the moment she need only know what I want her to know.” He hesitated a moment before asking, “Can you keep your stories straight—an expurgated version of the truth for Mrs. Eggleston and later the Canadian tale for England?”
Grimly, Nicole answered, “I had better, hadn’t I?”
“Let’s hope so,” he drawled. Christopher spent the rest of the day busy with the affairs of Thibodaux House—deliberately pushing all thoughts of Nicole from his mind, willing himself to deny how desirable he found her.
When he went downstairs that night, Nicole was already in the dining room. She was wearing an enchanting gown of gossamer silk, the Pomona green color complimenting the warm ivory of her skin. The gown was cut fashionably low, and Christopher had difficulty tearing his eyes away from the satin expanse of smooth flesh that it exposed. Her hair had been arranged in soft ringlets that fell about her face in artless disarray, and he knew an impulse to kiss that spot where her slim neck met the soft nakedness of her shoulder. While he appreciated the sight of her, he was swamped by the almost overpowering urge to rip the gown from her body and to have that cleverly arranged hair in wild disorder from his lovemaking.
He could feel his body betraying him, hardening with desire even as he walked over to her. The scent of the perfume she was wearing was tantalizing, and he resisted all his carnal instincts and saw to it that she was seated before he walked to the other end of the table. Furious with himself, he signaled for Sanderson to serve. Through the entire meal he was aware of the swelling in his skin-hugging breeches. Nicole’s polite attempts at conversation were met with a curtness that soon caused her to give up all pretense of sociability.
Rising with relief at the finish of the meal, she bid him a frosty good night and swept from the room unaccountably depressed. Christopher barely acknowledged her departure—he was too occupied fighting his baser instincts to worry how his actions appeared to others. It was only after Nicole had been gone for some minutes that he was able to rise from the table, his body once more under control.
Angry and unsettled, he took himself from the house, intending to walk off some of his temper. Unfortunately, it had begun to rain again, and after walking several yards in the damp drizzle, he gave it up and returned to the house, his mood, if possible, blacker and more explosive than before. He stalked to his bedroom, donned a robe and poured himself a whiskey.
He was in such a surly mood that Higgins, who usually enjoyed a short chat with him in the evening, took one look at his face and swiftly saw to the evening tasks, departing from the room with a sigh of relief.
The light rain had turned into a full-blown thunderstorm. Standing at the opened pair of doors that led to the veranda, he watched the jagged flashes of lightning against the black sky. He was not sleepy and the storm’s awesome power awakened some primitive excitement in him. Stepping out onto the rain-lashed veranda, he let the rain blow against his face. For a moment, he could almost pretend he was pacing the bridge of La Belle Garce as he had done so often in the past. As in a dream he found himself walking slowly in the direction of Nicole’s room.
The storm had awakened her, and for several minutes she lay in the bed, watching the streaks of lightning out a window under the eaves of the veranda, and listening with sleepy contentment to the rumble and fury of the thunder. She sat up in the bed, the air cool against her naked flesh. Despite her delight in the new night rails, she found that she much preferred the sensual feel of the bedclothes against her bare skin. Her blanket-covered legs drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, she rested her chin on her knees and stared with fascination at the ever-changing sky.
Though she was sitting in her cozy bedroom, it almost reminded her of storms at sea, yet it was not as spectacular for there was not the surging feel of La Belle Garce under her body. She remembered with longing the taste of rain on her lips and the wind in her hair as she stood on the wave-lashed decks of the ship. Rising quickly, she slipped on one of her new robes and ran barefooted to the French doors.
Just as she opened them there was a particularly sharp and explosive crack of thunder, followed by a gigantic flash of lightning that lit up the entire sky and clearly etched Christopher in silver as he stood near the railings, his back to her, engrossed in the storm.
When she saw him, her impetuous rush halted, and she froze, one foot on the veranda. The force of the storm flattened the robe against her, outlining her pointed breasts, her legs gleaming softly as it parted and flew in the air. Shock at his presence weakened her hold on the doors, and with a suddenness that shook her, the wind whipped them out of her hands and slammed them against the wall.
At the sound Christopher whirled, and for a timeless moment they stared at one another. His face was damp from the rain, and in the continuing flashes of lightning, his hair appeared shot with silver, as the light glinted off the raindrops resting on its inky blackness. Neither spoke, and Nicole was only aware of a sudden breathlessness, a tightening in her stomach, as time spun out. Frightened of the emotions he evoked, with a small inarticulate cry she stumbled back into her room, but Christopher moved as swiftly as the lightning in the sky, and with a muttered “Nick!” he dragged her into his arms.
Fighting as much against herself as Christopher, she struggled to escape, but there was no escape, not with his mouth, warm and demanding, moving with half-fierce, half-gentle urgency against hers. Her arms were locked at her sides and her body crushed next to the hard strength of his. She was conscious of many things as she twisted in his arms—the sweet taste of him, the feel of his long, muscled legs against hers, and most of all their naked state, for as her robe parted in her struggles so did his, and she caught her breath as she brushed against his groin, feeling him full and heavy with desire.
Christopher, lost in his own hell, had no intention of fighting against himself and what he wanted. Nick was in his arms where he needed her, and he wasn’t thinking of anything but the exquisite sensations of part-pain, part-pleasure it gave him to feel her soft, supple body twisting against him. She filled his arms as no one had before, her tall, slender body fitting as if she had been fashioned precisely for him and him alone. Somewhere at the back of his mind he wished she wouldn’t deny him so, but now it didn’t matter—all that mattered was that he be relieved of this demanding pressure between his legs. He ached with it, and it seemed that Nick was the only woman who had the power to satisfy it. As he continued to kiss her, his hands now cradling her head, holding her to his mouth, Nicole’s struggles gradually ceased, and she let the hunger that she hadn’t understood before sweep over her, knowing that, for whatever reasons, only Christopher had the ability to assuage it.
Feeling her melt into him, he raised his head and stared with a narrowed ha
rd look down into her wide dark eyes. His own were bright with passion, and seeing his own desires reflected tremulously back at him, he murmured beneath his breath, “I want you…I hurt with it, Nick. Heal me!”
Unaware of what he had said, or even what his words revealed if Nicole had heard them, he slowly undid her wrapper. Nicole shivering with the knowledge of what he was going to do with her body—wanting it as badly as he—made no move to run when he released her long enough for his robe to be flung on the floor beside hers. Then he swept her up in his arms and took her to the bed.
What followed was like no other time that they had come together in the past. They moved in slow sensual motion like people in a trance; Nicole for the first time discovering what was meant by making love. For they did make love—not just satisfying lust or animal passion, but expressing what neither would admit in the most natural and beautiful way possible.
Christopher’s flesh was a warm beneath her wandering fingertips as her hands slowly explored him, moving gently, almost dazedly, down across his face, his nose, his mouth, curved with passion, to his chest covered with black, soft hair, before sliding across his back, feeling with a frown the ridges and scars that marked him, then up again until her fingers encountered the rough silk of his head. It was she who brought his lips to hers, holding his face in both her hands as she tantalizingly moved her mouth across his in sweet provocation.
At her first tentative touch Christopher stilled, caught in the sensual web she wove. Trembling with the force of his ardor, he let her discover the dangerous pleasure of tempting and yielding as her fingers left his face and wandered down his body, her hands curving over his buttocks, exploring as they moved over the shape and texture of him.
He endured it as long as he could, this aching pleasure, but when her breast lightly brushed against his chest and her hands finally found him, he groaned and, swiftly rolling over, trapped her beneath him. Catching her bottom lip between his teeth, he growled thickly, “Torment me, will you?”
Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 9
