Nightingale

by Cathy Maxwell

  Dane followed her every movement with his eyes.

  Anticipation and a new awareness of herself as a woman made her bold. She wanted this, more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Then, perhaps, she could free herself from regrets and the weight of guilt.

  Her dress unlaced, she slid one sleeve and the other down her arms. Her bodice fell down to her hips, leaving her before him in her threadbare chemise.

  His gaze went to her breasts, which were right before him. Jemma leaned over and, this time, when she kissed him, she did so in the manner in which he had kissed her.

  Their kiss took on immediate heat. His strong arms came around her, lowering her to the bed, and this time, she felt no shyness.

  Dane kissed her lips, her chin, her cheeks. When his tongue traced a pattern around her ear, the astonishing sensation threatened to send her straight through the canopy like a shooting star.

  His hand on her breast grounded her.

  This, at least, was familiar. But his touch was far from the clumsy gropings of her husband. Dane knew what pleased her. She showed her enjoyment by circling his ear with the tip of her tongue.

  His reaction was abrupt.

  He took the front of her chemise in both hands and ripped it wide open, his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth teasing the sensitive skin. Cold air hit her breasts, but then his hands covered them, warming her in ways she’d never imagined.

  His breathing grew heavy. Or was that her own she heard? Deep inside, she could feel everything quickening, tightening, urging.

  His lips moved down her throat, and wherever he touched, she grew hot. He pressed her breasts together. They filled his hands.

  For a heartbeat, she was embarrassed. Her tight nipples were brown, and she’d always considered them ugly.

  Then, he murmured, “Beautiful,” and she was.

  He covered one breast with his mouth. Jemma felt the pull all the way down to the very core of her. She buried her fingers in his thick hair, and her legs opened to him with a will of their own. He moved to her other breast, giving it the same care and attention, and Jemma could have wept from the pleasure.

  This was her Dane. The man she’d once dreamed of marrying . . . and for now, nothing mattered except being here with him like this. She wanted to join with him. She needed their joining.

  They undressed quickly. Jemma was now glad of the candles lighting the room. They didn’t bother getting under the bedclothes but fell on each other gloriously naked. Her lover was a handsome man, but the erection he boasted was something she’d never imagined. Bold, proud, begging to be satisfied.

  Her husband had never been like this. The thought startled a laugh from her.

  Dane lifted an eyebrow. “What is funny?”

  “Nothing,” she assured him. “Nothing is funny at all.” She punctuated her words by daring to touch him. It was as hard as it looked.

  Dane wrapped her hair around one fist, as if he’d stop her if she attempted to escape from him. But she wasn’t running away. Her need for him was frightening in its intensity.

  She curved her body to meet his, her legs cradling his hips. His hand caressed her hip and down her thigh, encouraging her knees to bend and bring him closer. Not that she needed encouragement. She was hot, moist, ready. She closed her eyes.

  He entered her in one smooth thrust.

  She gasped aloud and he stopped.

  “Jemma? Have I hurt you?”

  “No, it feels so good,” she said on a sigh, her body adjusting to his size and length. “So right.”

  “Then open your eyes and look at me,” he ordered, and she obeyed.

  “Dane,” she murmured, and he smiled, the expression tense, as if he had a tight hold on himself. She shifted and took him deeper, and this time, he was the one to gasp—and she couldn’t help but laugh, “This is heaven.”

  “It is,” he agreed, and they began moving.

  Jemma had never been a participant in making love before. Her husband had never expected it . . . but now, she realized, he’d never taken her to this place. Nor had she wanted him to. How could she, if she’d never known such desire, such passion existed?

  Or did it only exist with Dane?

  She clasped him tightly, her arms around his neck, her legs holding his hips. She began whispering his name. Her insides coiled tighter and tighter.

  He told her she was beautiful, that she was wonderful, that he had missed her—

  The force and power of release was overwhelming.

  One moment Jemma was of this earth, and in the next, she was beyond, in a place she had never been before.

  She cried out her surprise, unmindful of who could hear her, the pinnacle so intense, so vibrant that she’d ceased to exist in every way save this one.

  And Dane knew she was there. He buried himself deep within her, and Jemma would have held him there forever if she could.

  The life force flowed from him and into her. For one shining, vibrant moment, she was complete. Whole. Sated. Perfect.

  Dane’s body collapsed on hers. His weight felt good.

  “Dear God,” he whispered, “dear sweet heavenly God.” His fingers were still buried in her hair. He brought his hand to his mouth, raising his lips over it before untangling his fingers. He smoothed her hair over the pillow.

  Slowly, Jemma became aware of her surroundings beyond Dane—the fire in the hearth, the flickering candles, the velvety spread beneath her. The air was laden with the scent of sex.

  Dane pulled the spread from one side and tossed it over their nakedness. Then, sliding over to her side, he wrapped his arms around her and, like a man, fell asleep.

  But Jemma didn’t sleep. Her body still hummed with the excitement of newly discovered passion. Ever so slowly, she returned to reality, and with it came regrets.

  She had played the devil’s game. She would never forget this night. For as long as she lived, she would be haunted by it, because no other man would ever compare to Dane.

  In less than one hour, he’d made her feel vital and alive. But now, she had to return to her life as it was. If she didn’t, she might be tempted to throw aside all respectability and beg him to keep her. To leave all her responsibilities behind, all the people who counted on her and the allegiance she owed her family . . .

  She could give up everything for this one man.

  Dane had always had that power over her, and now she understood why her father had fought so hard to keep them apart. In a way, she wasn’t certain her father hadn’t been right to encourage her to marry another. These emotions she felt for Dane—the lust, desire, hunger—they couldn’t be healthy. They were too overwhelming.

  Snuggled against him, she ran her hand down his side, feeling his ribs and the bone of his hip. She rubbed her nose against his shoulder, drinking in his scent.

  She could stay like this forever. Her fingers touched his now relaxed member. It was still more than what her husband could have boasted, and she smiled before being struck by a wave of sadness.

  Tonight had been a magic moment of “what could have beens.” But the moment was over. The time had come to leave.

  She’d fulfilled her part of the bargain. Cris was safe. She prayed her brother never found out what she’d done to save his life. If he did, Cris was stupid enough to challenge Dane again.

  Jemma knew in her woman’s soul she could not make love to Dane a second time and escape unscathed. Her heart was involved. She knew that now. The love she had once felt for him had been true. Her father had been wrong.

  She’d been wrong.

  Hugging him tight, she reveled one last time in the texture of his skin, of being here with him without the barriers of clothing and society. This felt too good. She had to leave.

  Carefully, Jemma slipped out of his arms. She took her time about the task so she would not wake him. When she was free, she tucked the bedspread around his body so he wouldn’t be cold. She resisted the urge to touch his hair.

  Instead
, she quietly picked up her dress from where it had been tossed on the floor and shrugged into it. She didn’t bother with underclothes. The chemise was ruined. She debated about leaving it behind, then decided it best not to leave any mementos. She kneeled to pick up her shoes, which had been kicked under the bed.

  Straightening, she looked up and found herself staring straight into Dane’s face. He was furious.

  His hand clamped down on her wrist. “Where did you think you were going?” he demanded.

  “I thought we were done,” Jemma answered, startled by the unbridled fury in his eye. “The bargain’s been met.”

  “We haven’t even begun,” he said, biting out the words. “Take off your clothes.”

  Chapter 7

  Jemma was leaving him again.

  Dane couldn’t believe she could do it twice. Had she not felt anything for him, even in the last hour? Or did she think him a bloody fool?

  Perhaps he was. He’d trusted her, hadn’t he? He’d believed she’d been as emotionally moved as he’d been by what had transpired between them. He’d thought that this time things would be different.

  Theirs had been no ordinary coupling. The earth had shaken for him. Being inside Jemma, joined with her as one, had been the one thing he’d ever wanted in life. In those too precious moments of fulfillment, he’d been more whole, more alive than ever before—and he’d fallen in love . . . all over again.

  Or maybe he’d done that when she’d touched his scar, when she’d acted as if she could feel the pain he’d suffered. In that single moment, everything he’d suffered—the hardships, the deprivations, the fears—had been worth the risk.

  Jemma had the power to turn his emotions inside out, emotions he’d denied himself for so long. She brought down all barriers . . . and he could not trust her. She bartered in cold tender.

  There was fear in her expressive eyes, and something else, something like disillusionment. Dane didn’t care. “Take off your clothes,” he repeated.

  Her jaw tightened, and the fear disappeared. It was as if she mentally withdrew herself. A wall went up inside her, and it was fascinating to watch. Was this stony creature Jemma? Or was she the woman he’d held in his arms, the woman who’d given herself with such abandon?

  “I can’t do anything if you hold my wrist,” she said, her voice cool.

  He released his hold—and she charged for the door.

  Furious, Dane bounded out of the bed after her, heedless of his nakedness. He reached the door before she did.

  “You would run?” he demanded, blocking her way. Why didn’t she care?

  “We’re done,” she threw at him. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes. “Let me leave.”

  A deadly calm fell over Dane. He understood now. Jemma was no better than any whore. Finally, the dream died. She really had come here for no other reason than to convince him to withdraw from the duel—and he almost hated her. Almost as much as he hated himself for having believed.

  “I thought you wanted me to cry off from my meeting with your brother,” he said, his voice quiet.

  Her brows came together in a worried frown. “I’ve met the bargain.”

  “No, Jemma. It isn’t over until I say it is.” He began walking toward her, and he was fully aroused and ready again.

  She backed away. “You’re angry.”

  “I am.” In the full-length mirror by the desk, he caught a glimpse of their reflections. They could have been actors playing their parts.

  Her hip hit the corner of his desk. She started to move aside, but he blocked her path with his arm. She whirled in the other direction. He caught her wrist.

  “No, Jemma, no more running,” he said and turned her wrist over. He placed a kiss on the delicate skin.

  “Dane—”

  “Take your dress off.” He raised his gaze to meet hers, letting her know he was deadly serious.

  Her smoky eyes studied him a moment. She nodded as if realizing she had no choice. Bowing her head, her hair covering her face, she did as he expected.

  Dane waited impatiently. Her hair still smelled of the sun and fresh air, but he knew better than to trust his senses anymore.

  The dress fell to her feet. She was naked beneath it.

  “Look in the mirror, Jemma,” he ordered softly.

  She hesitated, then slowly turned her head to see the two of them standing together. She was so close to him that the tips of her breasts could brush his chest.

  Dane slid his fingers in her hair and pushed it back over her shoulder. Her head tilted back and her eyes fluttered shut, her lips pressed together as if she did not want to be a witness.

  Ah, Jemma, he wanted to whisper, but he didn’t.

  If he was a better man, he would let her go, but he wasn’t.

  Instead, he leaned past her to push the ledgers aside, clearing a space on his desk. The candles were burning low in their sconces. In the light of the hearth’s coal fire, her body appeared to be burnished with gold.

  He lifted her buttocks up on the desk, parting her legs with his hips. His sex was so close to hers that he could feel her moist heat. For a moment, he nuzzled her nose, his lips near her ear. “Do you see us?” he asked.

  Her eyes opened. She looked toward the glass and nodded, her expression inscrutable.

  “Have you ever watched yourself making love?” he asked.

  Her lips parted, and he knew he had shocked her.

  “You will this time, Jemma,” he promised. “You will because I want you to know who it is taking you. I want you to remember.”

  In the glass, her gaze met his. “Please, Dane, no, not like this.” There was a hint of panic in her voice.

  “Then how else shall it be, Jemma? What else is there?” He thrust into her.

  Her muscles clenched and then accepted him, closing around him and cocooning him to her. But the joy he’d experienced earlier was gone. This was a clinical act, a ritual to exorcise himself from his own demons.

  He buried himself to the hilt. Jemma gave a start but didn’t say a word . . . not one bloody word. He pulled back and entered her again and again, mechanically going through motions as old as time . . . and it meant nothing.

  Too late, Dane glanced at the mirror—and froze. He barely recognized himself because his face was so contorted with anger. His lips were pulled back in a feral anticipation, and his every muscle was tense with rutting lust.

  Jemma watched him, her face as pale as death, her teeth clenched tight. This was not the vibrant creature he’d made love to earlier but a woman who was accustomed to being used in this manner by a man. A woman who held her breath and waited for it to be over.

  Abruptly he pulled out of her.

  For a second, he stood, his breathing heavy as he struggled for control. This was not the man he wanted to be.

  Nor was this the way he had ever wanted to treat Jemma. Ever.

  Dane took a broken step back and slowly fell to his knees. He bowed his head, wishing he could disappear from the face of the earth. What came over him around her? He prided himself on his control, and yet Jemma had the ability to rip right through him.

  He sensed her sitting up, could feel her watch him carefully. He felt little better than an animal.

  “Dane? Are you all right?”

  The empathy in her voice was almost his undoing. He needed to be alone. Now.

  “Go home, Jemma.” He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He’d proven himself to be a monster.

  She slid off the desk and stood over him, her bare toes inches from his knee. He waited for her to leave. She took a step away, then knelt down beside him.

  Dane turned away. Didn’t she understand what he’d been about to do? What he had done?

  Her arms came around his shoulders.

  He stiffened, but she did not let go. Instead, she rested her head against his. Her hair provided a shelter for both of them. She didn’t speak, but hugged him, and he was reminded of a Spanish painting he’d once seen of the Vi
rgin offering solace to a sinner.

  Then he felt her tears against his neck—and it was his undoing.

  He was a man, one who had faced countless dangers, one who had done what he must to survive . . . and Jemma? She was his one vulnerability.

  If she had made a different choice years ago, would he still be this same man? Or another? Perhaps he would have been one who didn’t have to be so hard? One who didn’t use his pride as a shield to keep himself from feeling or thinking too deeply?

  And it was this man, the one he might have been, who let down his guard. Who, in a voice Dane barely recognized as his own, ground out the question that had driven him for years: “Why, Jemma? Why did you choose another over me?”

  Chapter 8

  Jemma tightened her arms around Dane. She didn’t want to answer this question.

  For a second, she let herself drink in the scent of him. She pressed her lips to the crook of his neck, feeling his warmth. Her fingers were sensitive to the texture of his skin . . . and she wished she could stop time, to spend eternity right here in this moment and avoid the dangers of going forward.

  He waited, as still as stone. Even his heart seemed to have stopped beating . . . and Jemma knew she could not evade the truth.

  She sat cross-legged on the floor, bringing him to sit opposite her. Their knees practically touched, and she placed her hands on his thighs, feeling the strength there. Their nakedness underscored the need for unvarnished honesty.

  Dane did not look at her. The candles in another wall sconce burned themselves out, and Jemma feared it was a sign. The lines on his face were hard, bleak with raw emotion.

  She’d done this to him. She’d broken him.

  The realization of what she had once so carelessly tossed aside overwhelmed her. His love had been true. Now, with the experience of life’s hard lessons in greed, lust, selfishness, and desire, she understood exactly how rare and fine his love had been. This awareness made her confession all the more difficult. “I married him because I was too young to know any better.”

  The words sounded trite, even to her own ears.