"You would have left your family soon anyway, no matter how much you loved them all. You were a woman born for what we shared in the bedchamber at Harlestone—passionate by nature and so lovely. If I had not taken you to wife, one of your Virginian rebels would have."
Outside, twilight was tipping the tops of the trees with dusty purple, the groom was polishing the curricle, and in the street beyond children laughed. Lucy's fingers curled into a fist against the glass.
"Do you know that my father didn't want to let me come here from the first? He said I would be a loose cannon in England. That I would probably start another war."
"Did he?" She turned to see Valcour's lips curve into a smile that was shatteringly tender. "Your father must be a wise man."
"My mother teased him, saying he was afraid I would meet some dashing Englishman who would carry me off to his castle, so Papa would never see me again." Lucy stopped her throat swollen shut. "He dismissed it, all anger and scorn. But I know he was really afraid. I had never seen him so afraid, Valcour."
"He must love you very much."
"From the time I was dumped on his doorstep, all belligerence and rebellion and so much hurt, he was my hero. The brave Raider Pendragon. The patriot that men throughout Virginia exalted for his courage and cunning. I never had another hero, Valcour, until... until you broke the sword over your knee."
"I'm no dashing hero, hoyden. But you almost make me wish I was."
Lucy came to him, then stopped, not quite touching him. The scent of wind and dark spices, desire and regret emanated from every taut muscle in his body. "You would make a fine hero, Valcour. A bold gypsy count Iago, with midnight hair and eyes like black fire. And this..." She traced her finger down the scar on Valcour's face. She saw him wince as if the faint white line still pained him. She wondered why it did.
Lucy gave a feeble laugh and turned away, pacing to the stool where she had spent so many miserable hours. She sank down on it, linking her arms about her knees. "I suppose the truth is that any hero in his right mind would take one look at me and run the other way."
She felt small, somehow, lost in a sea of loneliness, regret. She started when Valcour sank down before her on one breech-clad knee, his palm curved upon her cheek. "I'm not running, Lucinda." He ran his thumb tenderly across the lower curve of her lip.
"Valcour, will you do something for me?" she asked, her eyes glistening with tears she would not shed.
"Anything, Countess."
"Would you hold me again? The way you did at Harlestone?"
Valcour wouldn't meet her eyes, his fingers toying with the ends of her sash. "I don't think that is a good idea, little one. I'm not a man to settle for holding you, when I really want to make love with you."
"But that's what I meant. I want you to... to make me forget, the way you did on our wedding night." Her voice caught on a broken sob. "Please, make me forget for a little while."
Valcour groaned, every resolution he had made not to touch her again vanishing like mist before the blazing heat that shimmered through him, the crushing, unfamiliar tenderness that wrenched his gut at the sight of her lips trembling, her cheeks still stained with the salty tracks of dried tears.
He wanted to see her brave and bonny again, tossing her curls in defiance, and laughing at him as if she were an empress. He would have gladly endured another kick to his tenderest parts if it would change her back into the bold hoyden who had challenged him at the gaming hell.
Valcour scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, then drifted her down on the coverlets as if she were some rare and fragile treasure. He framed her face between his palms, threading his fingers back through the sunlight-silkiness of her hair.
Make me forget. Lucinda's plea echoed back from the deepest reaches of Valcour's own soul. He lowered his mouth to hers, let his lips melt, hot and searching, into the yielding sweetness of hers.
With every fiber of his being, Dominic tried to drive the shadows from her eyes. His mouth was ruthlessly compelling, his hands unsteady with his own savage need.
And when he braced himself above her and plunged deep, there was nothing between them. No shadows, no ghosts, and—for a moment, just one shimmering moment—no regrets.
Chapter 15
Something growled. Lucy wanted to take her pillow and smother whatever was making the disturbance. She was warm and safe, curled like a treasure in Valcour's strong arms, and she wanted to stay there forever. Safe from a hundred nagging doubts, safe from guilt and remorse. Safe from the doubts that tugged at her whenever she saw the icy detachment Valcour fought so hard to keep in his ebony eyes.
But whatever was making such an infernal noise wouldn't be quieted, an odd gnawing sensation in her stomach the final straw that prodded her awake.
She pressed her hand to her stomach and smiled against Valcour's chest. She had never been a lady of birdlike appetite. God knew it took food aplenty to fuel her boundless energies. And after last night it was no wonder she was in need of fortification.
Her cheeks heated at the memory of what had passed between her and her husband. Slowly, she sat up, carefully loosening Valcour's fingers, which were tangled in the cascade of her hair. She looked down into Valcour's face, a face that had always been bewitchingly handsome, yet harsh as a cliff beaten by a storm.
But the man who lay sleeping beside her was like a stranger. He dozed, peaceful as an archangel at heaven's gate. His bronzed chest was sculptured with the virile perfection of a Greek god's, one long-fingered hand splayed across it. An artist's hand, Lucy noted in surprise, touching one finger gently with her own.
His cheek was buried against the pillow, concealing the scar that marred his face. His hair fell across the white linen, midnight against snow. His lashes fell in thick fans on his cheekbones, and those sensual lips were parted, as if he was tasting something sweet.
For a moment, Lucy wondered if she had ever seen anything more beautiful. She was just reaching out a finger to touch him when her stomach let out a growl that would have done a hunting tiger proud. She jerked her finger away from the sleeping Dominic and grimaced. It was little wonder she was starved. Neither she nor Valcour had eaten much at all the day before. Breakfast had been an appetite-crushing affair, with Lady Catherine looking as if her son had contracted some deadly disease rather than married. And after the scene at the Wilkeses', neither Lucy nor Valcour had had the energy to taste anything. Until they'd feasted on each other.
He would be as much in need of sustenance as she was once he awoke. Or was awakened...
An idea formed in her mind, making her lips curve into a smile. Did she dare act so boldly? She nibbled at her lip then shrugged. After last night she could hardly play the shy and frightened virgin.
Suddenly delighted with herself, Lucy slid out of bed and donned her bedgown. With a last glance at Valcour, she crept into the corridor. She could hear the servants downstairs moving about. With stealth gained on hundreds of other such raids, Lucy made her way to the dining room and peeped into the chamber. Several footmen were busy laying out slavers full of muffins and beefsteak, oranges and tea, muttering about the fact that their master had never been late at his breakfast before.
The moment the room was empty, Lucy stole in and purloined the most delicious morsels of food, bundled them in a napkin, then raced back up to the bedchamber, where her husband was still sleeping. The door gave an unexpectedly loud thud as she closed it, a heartbeat before the upstairs maid rounded a corner.
Lucy was certain Valcour would wake, but he only murmured something sleepily, his hand making a halfhearted search for her across the bed. Then he stilled again, his palm still extended, his fingers curled and empty.
Lucy went to the bed and snuggled up again beside the solid warmth of his side, then opened her bundle of food. She selected a section of orange dripping with juices then rubbed it in a seductive path along Valcour's parted lips. The earl awoke slowly, turning to face her. The wrinkles in the pillow ca
sings had pressed creases into his beard-stubbled cheek, his sleep-misted eyes haunted with confusion and a wariness that Lucy understood all too well.
A moan rumbled in Valcour's chest as he rose up on one elbow and glanced at the window bright with morning sun. Beyond the panes, street criers' voices were a faint cacophony of warring melodies as they urged people to buy fresh oranges, violets, and tallow candles.
Valcour's gaze shifted from the window to the napkin full of treats in Lucy's hands, and his brows dipped in a feigned scowl.
"Tell me you didn't go out adventuring this morning, hoyden. I've no desire for a bevy of disgruntled street vendors to be pounding on my door, accusing you of thievery."
"I stole this from beneath the very noses of your own servants, sir," Lucy said, letting her eyes dance at him.
Valcour's mouth softened into a drowsy smile. "I am much relieved."
That sleepy, sensual smile made Lucy, tremble. She moistened her lips, her voice husky with need. "Reward me, then."
For a heartbeat, Valcour's gaze locked with hers. Then he caught her wrist in a tender grasp and drew the fingers that held the bit of orange back to his mouth. His eyes heated as he sucked the sweet fruit into his mouth, then his lips closed over the tips of Lucy's fingers, the rough heat of his tongue spearing primitive desire into the place still tender from his loving assault the night before.
Lucy thought he had showed her every facet of passion, but the Valcour who seduced her now was more potently sensual than ever before, enticing her deeper and deeper into pulsing sensation and heady delight.
He stripped away her bedgown and laid her down across the tumbled bedcovers, then he took cinnamon-laced muffins, still warm from the oven, and broke them, feeding her bits of the spicy warm cakes, cleaning the crumbs that fell on her skin by nibbling them away with his teeth.
He burst the translucent membranes of the orange sections between his fingers, letting the juices drizzle onto the hardened coral tips of her nipples, then laved away the moisture as if touching her had made it the nectar of some pagan god of passion. Lucy moaned and trembled, wanting to touch him, kiss him, but Valcour held her prisoner with nothing but the intensity in his eyes.
He explored her more intimately than ever before, savoring her most secret places until Lucy sobbed with the force of emotions he unleashed.
Stunned at the sensation, Lucy was unable to wait a moment more. She dragged his mouth to hers, kissing him desperately, hungrily, moans forming in her throat, mating with his own groans of pleasure as their tongues warred and tasted, plundered and feasted.
Their bodies, still sticky, moist with sweat and desire and oranges, seemed to melt together, and Lucy pushed Valcour until he gave in to her impulse. He rolled over until she was atop him. Lucy kissed his cheeks, his throat, nibbling kisses down his chest to give his hardened nipples the same loving attention he had given hers.
Every muscle in Valcour's chest was rigid, his face contorted almost as if in pain, his breath rasping, broken by moans of pleasure. But when her mouth trailed lower along the dark ribbon that bisected his stomach, Valcour stilled as if he'd been turned to stone. Lucy hesitated for a heartbeat then gave Valcour the same unselfish gift he had given her. For long minutes, Valcour held himself still, his fingers delving into the golden curls that lay in silky skeins on the hot flesh of his stomach. Lucy could feel him shaking, hear his groan of complete surrender.
With an oath, he grabbed her arms, rolling her beneath him and mounting her with one mighty thrust.
Lucy reveled in his primitive passion, dazed at the wildfire they had built between them. Valcour thrust, once, twice, Lucy crying out as the pinnacle crashed over her again. With a groan, Valcour drove one final time inside her, as if he could bury himself in her very soul.
He laid there for long minutes, his face pressed against her hair, the soft sheath of her body still clinging to him, holding him. Lucy longed to say something, tell him... tell him how magical it had been. How much she... what? Had lost herself to this man, torn open all of her vulnerabilities and held back nothing in his arms?
As if Valcour didn't already know. But he had given her the taste of an unrestrained passion so potent she knew it would change her forever.
She swallowed hard as Valcour drew slowly away from her. "Lucinda, I..." He looked as if he'd survived some disaster, as if he were stunned that their loving was over, that he was still whole.
Or was he? Was she?
They were both so damned rigid in their strength and independence, fiercely controlling any situation that came to them. But there had been no controlling the maelstrom that obliterated the cold detachment from Valcour's eyes and the mutiny from Lucy's own.
She didn't know which of them was the most eager to escape the bed and the shattering intimacy they couldn't deny there. Valcour turned coward first. He climbed from the bed, gloriously naked, smelling of oranges and uncertainty. He scooped up his shirt and then took his leave of her, muttering something about never having been late to a meeting with his solicitor before.
She watched him stalk from the room, but at the doorway he paused for a moment and looked back at her, his eyes saying things his lips could not. He left.
Lucy drew the crumb-dotted coverlets about her, her body still tingling with remembered pleasure. Then Lady Catherine's maid, Millie, knocked on the door, offering to help Lucy with her morning toilette. Lucy tugged her robe about her and stole from the bed, feeling oddly shy, as if every kiss and caress, every shudder of desire and moan of pleasure, had been engraved on the sheets for the whole world to see. But the maid was the soul of servant discretion. Without so much as a word, she dressed Lucy's hair and got her into a gown of cloud-colored muslin, embroidered with thread of gilt. A shimmering scarlet stomacher was laced into place, gold bunches of ribbon fashioned into rosettes at the edges.
But as the maid surveyed her work, giving Lucy's petticoats one last tug, the woman smiled. "It seems married life has put color back in your cheeks, my lady. I wish you and my lord much happiness."
Lucy stared at the vision reflected in the gilt-framed mirror, her lips curving into a dubious smile as she peered at the image of a stranger.
The golden curls were Lucy's own, scarlet ribbons woven through the tresses like the heated paths of Valcour's eager fingers. The lace that edged Lucy's bodice was the pattern Emily had lovingly tied for her for her eighteenth birthday. Even the haughty little bump on the reflected nose and the stubborn jut to the chin were those of the Raider's daughter.
But nothing else about that face was the same. The eyes that had always been sharp and keen, the almost painful blue of a summer sky, were big and soft and unsure beneath thick lashes. Her cheeks bloomed a delicate rose color that Valcour's passion had put there. Her lips were slightly puffy, warm and red, still tasting of Valcour's kisses.
But the most startling transformation of all was buried in the center of Lucy's chest. A heavy, joyously aching knot had formed there. A knot very like the one that had pulsed inside her when she was an emotionally battered child taking her first tentative steps toward allowing herself to love.
But then she had been reaching out to her gentle, compassionate mother, and to Ian Blackheath, who obviously adored the little girl who had brightened his barren life. Now she was reaching out to a man with scars Lucy was beginning to suspect ran even deeper than her own.
What would it be like to see Valcour's dark eyes without the clinging shadows, without the secrets and the pain that cut him off from the rest of the world? What would it be like to see him fling back his head and laugh, rich and unrestrained?
What would it be like to run and fling herself into his arms, confident that he would catch her up and kiss her?
The image made Lucy's fingers twine together, the places Valcour had explored earlier tingling again with remembrance.
She glanced at the sunshine-glossed window and felt the press of buildings beyond, the noise and bustle of the city. She would
just as soon wait in her bedchamber all day, hoping Valcour would return to bed her again. But though that prospect was more alluring than she'd care to admit, she doubted she could manage again so soon, with the tenderness so much lovemaking had left between her thighs.
What should she do with the rest of her morning? Valcour was locked up in his study, neck deep in business dealings, no doubt. She smiled, hoping that he was dreadfully distracted, trying to concentrate on rows of numbers and messages from various estates but being taunted by images of their passion the night before.
Shopping sounded dreadfully dull after the night she had spent in Valcour's arms, any thought of making calls equally unappealing. Lucy nibbled at the edge of her fingernail. This bride rigmarole was confusing at best. The girls of Lucy's acquaintance who had married when she was still in Virginia had fairly burst with their eagerness to take charge of their new husband's home: tallying up silver, examining furnishings for signs of the housekeeper's neglect. Patience Chartley had gone into greater ecstasies over Thomas Chartley's chests full of linens than she had over poor Tom himself.
But Lucy wouldn't have cared if Valcour had tablecloths of spun gold tucked away somewhere. Her gaze flicked out the window at the rear of her room. The sound of a horse's whinny below made her race over to the casement. She might have no interest in linens, but she suspected her husband's stable was a veritable treasure trove.
Satisfied with her idea, she hurried down the sweep of hallway, intending to indulge her passion for fine horses, when suddenly a soft voice called her name.
Lucy stopped, trying to keep her face from falling as she saw Lady Catherine, framed in the doorway of what seemed to be her own suite of rooms. Valcour's mother was garbed in dove-gray satin, a white lace cap framing her face. She clutched a lace-edged handkerchief in her fingers, the delicate square crumpled as if she had been twisting it between nervous fingers.
The Raider’s Daughter Page 25
