"Open for me," Valcour urged, kissing her neck. "Open and let me touch you. It will feel wondrous. Magic. I promise."
Magic. The word seemed so strange yet so right coming from his lips. Lucy caught her lower lip between her teeth and slowly, ever so slowly, parted her thighs.
A groan of appreciation rumbled in Valcour's chest. "You're so lovely, Lucinda. Here." His finger circled on a hidden nub, making her cry out. "You're beautiful... everywhere. I don't deserve... don't deserve..." She ached for him to finish his sentence, sensing pain in him, a chink in his armor she would never have believed existed.
But instead, Valcour began a sensual assault on her body, on her spirit, that was as devastating and as magical as the mortal Leda must have felt when the king of gods, Zeus, mated with her.
Hot, probing fingers explored, a wondrously skilled mouth made her his slave, inch by torturous inch. Low groans and words of praise seduced, while her own body writhed in response, her own fingers clenching on his shoulders, her legs twisting against his hair-roughened ones, as if trying to draw him closer.
He smelled of wind and rain and musky male arousal. He felt hard and hot and dangerous. Lucy shivered in response as he submerged her in a rainbow-shaded haze of desire, sinking her deeper and deeper into a world of his creation.
Sparks scattered through Lucy's body as his fingers toyed with her most sensitive secret places, then dipped into the damp, quivering sheath that was aching for him to fill it.
"You're small," Valcour groaned. "Tight as a fist. I don't want to... hurt..."
Lucy arched her hips toward the tormenting caress of his hand, wanting him to caress her more deeply, mount her and drive himself deep. She insinuated her hand between them and touched the shaft between Valcour's hard thighs.
He convulsed as if she had burned him, a pained groan tearing from deep in his throat.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, snatching back her fingers.
"I've never been in such accursed agony," Valcour ground out. "But, then, you've always delighted in paining me there. Lucinda, Lucinda... what sweet vengeance you have worked against me." He stunned her by grasping her wrist and pressing her open hand against him again, tighter, harder.
Lucy's hand closed around the shaft, and Valcour arched his head back as she fingered it delicately. It was velvet-sheathed steel, hot and throbbing with need. And Lucy was awed that she could have such an effect on a man like Valcour. Her fingers skated over the velvety tip, learning the feel of primitive male arousal.
Valcour was shaking, his breath rasping like a dying man's. A groan hissed between his clenched teeth, and he drew her hand away. "Lucinda, don't. I'm trying to hold back, damn it. Have to keep control."
"Why?"
"You're a virgin." It was as if Valcour were trying to remind himself of her innocence. "I won't take you like a stag in rut. I won't hurt you."
"It would take more than a stiff-necked, tyrannical English lord to hurt me. Virginians are made of sterner stuff." She tried to jest then stopped, moistening her lips. "Valcour, you already hurt me, infuriated me, frustrated me. You've ordered me around for days. For once, do what someone else tells you to do. Make love to me, Valcour. Now."
With a groan, he hooked his hand under her knees, drawing them apart, then positioned himself between her legs.
"Damn, you're an obstinate woman," Valcour breathed. "Stubborn, infuriating, you never do what you're told."
"I opened my mouth for you to kiss me. Kiss me like that again, Valcour. Hot and hard and deep, when you take me."
Valcour groaned. "Call me Dominic. Call me Dominic and I'll kiss you until your bones melt.”
"Dominic. Dominic, Dominic, Dom..." Lucy's words were stopped by Valcour's mouth on hers, fierce, so fierce. She felt that part of him that deemed him a man probe the dewy cleft between her legs.
Valcour braced himself on his elbows to keep from crushing her, and Lucy turned her gaze away, her cheeks heating, her breath unsteady with anticipation. She didn't want him to see that she was suddenly frightened—not by the breaking of her maidenhead, but at the thought that she would expose her own ignorance, that she would be awkward, ungainly, in this new erotic dance.
"Look at me, Countess," Valcour demanded, his mouth trailing over her cheeks, her chin, as he pressed himself against the petals of her femininity. "I want to see your face when I make you my own."
Valcour entered her just a little, an unaccustomed heaviness, a delicious pressure that promised so much more. He withdrew, then eased himself deeper. Lucy opened her eyes, feeling herself drown in liquid midnight, heated muscular flesh. She flattened her hands against Valcour's broad back, her fingers exploring the ridges of his spine, then the hard curves of his buttocks.
Valcour groaned, his arms shaking where they braced him above her, his face sheened with sweat. "It will hurt for but a heartbeat, my little rebel." Then he kissed her, so hard, so hot, that the pleasure of it drowned out the sudden pain as he thrust his hips forward.
Lucy gave a choked little cry, then felt only Valcour, inside her, deep, so deep, a part of her. She wanted him to lose control, wanted so much for the passion to carry him away, carry them both away. But no matter how hungrily she touched him, how her lips swept over his chest, his face, no matter how desperately her hips rose up to meet his measured thrusts, there was something restrained about him, careful.
He bracketed her hips with his hands, still keeping most of his weight from crushing her as he taught her the movements of the dance of passion.
The heaviness between her thighs grew more insistent, more exciting, Valcour's hard body carrying her along with him in the currents of a wild river she had never known existed before this night.
Lucy gasped, arched, and he filled her again and again, his mouth lavishing her with kisses, fragments of praise, his hands building wildfires in every fiber of her being.
Valcour lowered his mouth to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth with a tender savagery that made Lucy's body convulse, the pleasure center between her legs heating to a raging inferno of need.
She whimpered, writhed, as he teethed the excruciatingly sensitive bud gently, ardently. Her fingers clawed at Valcour, trying to draw him even tighter into her body. She battled to catch the sensation fleeting as quicksilver that tantalized her from the tips of Valcour's fingers, the sweet, hot questing of his mouth, the powerful thrusting of his manhood deep, so deep.
When she couldn't bear another moment, he reached between their bodies to where they were joined, his fingers seeking out that part of her that felt like a sizzling ember of need. The callused pad of his fingers stirred it, seduced it until Lucy quaked with the building of pleasure, arched against him faster, gasping, pleading for that magic that drifted in a shower of silver just beyond her reach.
Then he gave it to her.
With a flick of his skilled hand and a heavy, dizzying plunge of his powerful body, it seemed as if Valcour had driven himself into her soul.
Lucy cried out as the sparks of pleasure burst inside her, engulfing her, empowering her, making her head toss on the pillows and her legs tangle around Valcour's hips, holding him there as the contractions hurled her into oblivion.
He prolonged her pleasure as if it were some holy quest, his face contorted, almost as if in pain, his eyes filled with some emotion she couldn't identify.
Then he surged into her with all the might of his magnificent male body. A groan that was almost agony tore from his chest as Lucy felt his essence pulse against the mouth of her womb.
Lucy had dismissed so many romantic fancies as a hoyden girl, certain that eternal passion was reserved for beautiful angels like her mother. But as Lucy lay in her husband's arms, newly made a woman, she felt a sudden yearning, a gnawing regret. What would this night have been like if Valcour had come to her with the same fierce adoration Ian Blackheath had for her mother? If Valcour were a far different man, freed of his icy shell, and she were a bride, blushing with eagerness,
ecstatic as she entered a world of love and trust and passion? What would it have been like if Valcour had wanted her so badly, he hadn't been able to master his passions, keep them under control? What would it have been like if she could have pried loose his grasp on the real world and hurtled him into pleasure so wild, so intoxicating, the mighty earl of Valcour had vanished and only Dominic, Lucinda's lover, had remained?
She was stunned at the tears that welled at the corners of her eyelids, trickling free. She turned her face against the pillow, wanting to hide them.
Valcour braced himself on one elbow, gently stroking the web of hair back from her brow. "It will be easier next time, hoyden."
Easier? To have Valcour take her physically, knowing that neither of them felt the love that would have made their union pure magic? To know that Valcour had created these same sensations in his mistresses, and that she was no different to him? A woman to pleasure himself with, a pretty toy to tantalize and torment with the skill of his hands, his mouth.
She corrected herself. She was far different from the other women who had taught Valcour to be such a talented lover. She was his countess. She would carry his name, produce his precious heir. But he would never love her. As a child, stolen from her mother, Lucy had been starved for love, felt that need gnawing inside her like the most brutal hunger. Now, in this bed, with this enigmatic man beside her, she wondered if that hunger would return, along with the feelings of anger, despair... worthlessness.
Valcour's voice, uncharacteristically gentle, shook her from her thoughts. "It always hurts a woman the first time a man takes her, Lucinda. And I..." His face twisted with regret. "I wasn't as gentle as I wanted to be."
Lucy dragged the frayed remnants of her nightshift about her, groping for the belligerence that had always served as a shield against too much vulnerability. He had been gentle with her body. But her spirit... He must never know how bruised she felt there.
"I didn't know what to expect from the marriage bed, my lord, but I hardly anticipated gentleness since I shared it with you."
Valcour drew back, lines carving between those straight black brows. "I see."
"You needn't be offended by my observation," Lucy said, climbing from the bed and crossing to the dressing table. "After all, I can hardly be expected to hold any sentimental delusions about your character."
She picked up a comb and stroked it through her hair. "You fling me over your shoulder like some Celtic barbarian, your boots still encrusted with dirt from my father's open grave. You hurl me into bed, and—"
"I didn't force you, Lucinda," Valcour said, a terrible stillness in his face. "You said you wanted me."
"I suppose I did. You are, after all, quite a magnificent specimen of a man. Of course, I haven't much basis to make comparisons. I suppose I'll remedy that lack in my education in time."
She glanced into the mirror, catching Valcour's reflection in the silvered glass. His jaw seemed cast in iron, his features very pale.
"When you set forth the conditions of our marriage, you did say that I could do as I wished, as long as I was discreet," she reminded him.
"Once my son is born," Valcour growled.
"Your son? He won't be your property. He'll be mine as well. I'm certain that by the time I conceive, you'll be more than relieved, anxious to get back to entertaining—what did Aubrey say your mistress's name is?—Camilla. Lovely name. I'm certain she'll be heartbroken at your defection."
There was a flash of some emotion across Valcour's face that twisted in Lucy's vitals like a knife.
Valcour grabbed his breeches, jamming his legs into them with barely restrained fury. "I'll not discuss this with you, Lucinda. A mistress and a wife are not of the same world."
"But you are so civilized about such matters here. I have heard that some great men have their mistresses and wives become the best of friends. All quite amicable." She pursed her face in mockery. "My dearest Sally, shall we cast dice to see who gets into Barrington's breeches tonight?"
"Enough," Valcour said, snatching up his shirt. He dragged the still-damp linen over his shoulders.
Lucy tossed her curls, her whole body vibrating with anger and pain. "You shall have to tell Camilla your separation is only temporary, of course," she taunted. "That once the exalted Valcour heir is thriving in my womb, you will be able to return to her with a clear conscience. After all, the English aristocracy is hardly expected to cling to any tiresome values like fidelity."
"What Camilla and I had was ended before I made you my wife." Valcour shot out of bed, crossing the room in three quick strides. He grasped Lucy by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him. "What the devil is the matter with you?"
Lucy wished to God she knew. Wished she understood why she felt so broken, so battered, so bereft. She should have been comforted by what she had just experienced in Valcour's arms. She had been awed by the power of it, the wild sweetness of his passion. Yet she had only felt more vulnerable, more powerless. His touch had only taunted her with fleeting images of the love she would never have a chance to know.
Valcour's voice softened, one finger hooking beneath her chin. "I thought we did remarkably well together in bed, Lucinda. In time—"
"What? I can prove a tolerable substitute for your demimondaines as long as necessary?" She jerked away from his touch. "After all, I'm a mere receptacle for the cherished Valcour heir. If I will follow your instructions, everything will be wonderful, won't it? I suppose I should be thanking you. After all, you made some effort on my behalf. I would guess that heirs can be gotten more expediently, and I am certain there are few bridegrooms who would spend the night excavating graves on their bride's behalf."
"We are back to that again, are we?" Valcour turned away, dragging one hand through his hair. He suddenly looked unutterably tired. "Lucinda, this marriage can be as tolerable or as miserable as you choose to make it. I know we began badly, but in time we can grow to know each other better. In time, we will have children to fill the place of your little Norah."
"Norah? How do you know about Norah?" Lucy felt a sick tensing in her stomach, horrified realization dawning inside her. Valcour's cheeks stained dark, his eyes flicking, almost as if by their own will, to the letters she had all but broken her heart to write hours before.
During the barren, lonely years the d'Autrecourts had banished Lucy to Jamaica, she had learned to keep the vulnerable part of herself protected. Even basking in the love of Emily and Ian, she had been unwilling to share that tender, fragile part of her with any but those few people she trusted most. To know that Valcour had seen beneath her tough facade made her feel furious, violated.
"You read my letters!" Lucy choked out. She waited for him to deny it, but he met her gaze squarely, his answer in his eyes. "How dare you!" she raged, mortified that he had seen her weakness. "They were mine! Mine! You had no right!"
"I suppose we can count ourselves even, then, madam. You had no right to be prying in the tower room."
"Oh no, Valcour. We're not even by a long way. You have worked three times the villainy on me that I have on you. But I warn you, the score will be evened. I promise you will pay for every piece of devilment you have done to me."
"And exactly what is on your list of my crimes? That I saved you from that gaming hell? That I rescued you from the disaster you and Aubrey had gotten yourself into? That I married you to save you from social ruin and then opened your father's grave to make certain you would be safe?"
"Safe? From what? Are you telling me that my own father was supposed to be a danger to me if he had been alive?"
"Someone is stalking you, girl. Taking great lengths to lure you into some mad dream that your father lives. Did it ever occur to you that this person might be dangerous? Hell, whoever is stirring up this insanity would have to be unbalanced to concoct such a scheme in the first place."
"Did it ever occur to you that the corpse you unearthed might not be my father at all?" Lucy flung back.
"What
the blazes? Of course it was d'Autrecourt."
"How can you be so certain after seventeen years?" Lucy demanded, her fists clenching in the torn cloth of her nightshift. "There couldn't have been much left of his face. It could have been anyone lying in that coffin, rotting."
Valcour's gaze narrowed, but not enough to wholly conceal the sudden unease in his eyes. "What are you saying?" He sneered. "That the d'Autrecourts murdered some poor helpless bastard, dressed him in Alexander's clothes, and buried him beneath a headstone with Alexander's name on it?"
"Is that so inconceivable considering everything else they've done to protect their family name?" Lucy demanded, so close her bare toes brushed the tips of Valcour's own. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were the bones of some poor child in the coffin that was supposed to be mine. Maybe you should trundle yourself out again with your spade and dig that up as well, to make certain I am not dead."
Valcour's jaw squared, and she could see a vein throbbing in his temple. "Don't be a fool."
"Why shouldn't I be? I certainly wouldn't want you to change your estimation of my character, after the tender little scene we just played out. Of course, I can understand why you might be reluctant to go grave robbing again so soon, my lord. Maybe I will go out and exhume the coffin. Quite a unique experience, I would imagine, digging up one's own grave. It should make quite an intriguing tale for the new countess of Valcour to share over the tea table. Unless, of course, I can dredge up a more interesting skeleton in the St Cyr family history."
"The St. Cyr family skeletons are a dangerous lot, Lucinda. Tampering with them would be the biggest mistake you ever made."
"Obviously you have no knowledge of my distinguished career. I've made a great many blunders, my lord. I'm not afraid to add another. This castle seems fairly bursting with secrets. Imagine the fun I could have, ferreting them out, displaying them to the world. I was a mere child when I discovered the secret that Ian Blackheath was the dread patriot Raider Pendragon. I even dressed up in his mask and cloak. It was quite entertaining."
Valcour's face was ice-white, hard as stone. "I am certain you would find it so. Unfortunately, your entertainment at the St. Cyrs' expense will have to wait. We are leaving for London as soon as the coach can be brought 'round."
The Raider’s Daughter Page 21