by Thea Devine
They would have to go back to Waybury. To confront Hugo. To find the diamonds and whatever it had been that contained them. And to finally have the answers to all her questions.
But maybe not today, not yet. It seemed too soon after these suppositions that had such a ring of truth. He was as shocked
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she was by them, and wholly uncertain how to proceed. Didn't even want to think about how to proceed.
And in spite of them, he didn't want to leave her as much as she wanted him to stay.
She felt uncommon tenderness well up into her heart; he was on the floor, just by her chair. She could touch him. She could push him away. Emily was sitting on her haunches on the table, a posture that was stiff with portent, as if she were waiting, too, to see what his decision would be.
The air was close, tight, the flame in the lamp on the table flickering as the kerosene burned low. There were shadows everywhere, hiding in corners, behind the furniture, under the bed . . .
"Jancie..."
There was such sweetness in his voice that she completely understood. In that one word, he encompassed all the uncertainties they faced tomorrow. They didn't know what would happen tomorrow—it would be the culmination, the resolution, the thing that could rip everything, every assumption, wide apart.
They only had tonight, and the burden of equal culpability of deceit and desire.
And something had changed—she felt it, just in the way he said her name. The way he had listened tonight. His willingness to consider her perspective and deny his own.
And the way he touched her, his hand on hers now . ..
"Jancie..."
There was nothing more than tonight and no more shadows and secrets between them.
Even Emily appreciated that. She jumped from the table and scurried under the bed as Jancie lifted her nightgown and parted her legs.
And he was there, where she needed him, wanted him, between her legs, spreading her labia, exploring her secrets, stroking and feeling the inmost tender flesh of her body.
This was what she couldn't live without—his spreading her vulva so gently, masterfully, so that she could only submit to his thorough erotic exploration of every inch of her there with his fingers, and his hot, stroking tongue.
The way he nuzzled and sucked her delicate flesh, and teased her erect pleasure point, the way he kissed it and pulled on it, all
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the while spreading her labia wide open so nothing could be withheld from him . . . this was unbearable, explosive pleasure beyond words, beyond the orgasmic culmination of it. This was his pure ownership of the most private part of her body, his possession of her soul.
She loved it, loved it, loved it—and missed it, missed the feeling of his expert fingers spreading her, pulling at her, missed the naked feeling of being utterly open to him, missed his questing tongue tasting her, eating her.
All of that, she had missed, and she ground her hips and sought his tongue and his lust to devour her between her legs, and when he finally thrust his tongue into her hole, she shattered—fragile as glass, hard as diamonds, she came on his tongue, naked, open, and his this way forever.
******************
They lay side by side on the bed, his hand possessively between her legs, his fingers deep within her, spreading her still, lightly, meaningfully, erotically, so that even in the aftermath of that earth-shaking orgasm, she still felt breathless with erotic anticipation at feeling his fingers there.
It was totally dark now, but dawn was coming, inexorably, and nothing would hold it back. But until then, he held her, inexorably his, hard between her legs, aroused by every incremental movement of her body as she involuntarily responded to being so firmly and unrelentingly spread.
"No matter what happens . .." he whispered on a breath, "no matter what. . . this—"
"Yes—"
She didn't need the words—she had his unyielding ringers, his towering penis, his hot, naked body, his avid mouth .. . her body arched and undulated in subtle enticing movements as he aroused her to a fever pitch merely by his fingers constantly pushing and prodding between her legs.
And when she was at the boiling point, he held her labia wide for his penetration, mounted her, and forcefully drove his penis home.
She sheathed him tight and deep in an immeasurable pocket or sensual heat. It was barely enough. He wanted more ... a hun-
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dred ways more . . . He felt as if he'd never plumb the depths of her, and just that thought and the pumping gyrations of her hips sent him flying—spewing to the sky—and deep inside as far as he could go.
She made him come so easily, so effortlessly; the way she responded to him made him pour out his seed, which made him ache for more of her body, and the more she gave him, the more he craved her.
All of her.
It was such a tight, sensual circle of need. And different from anything he had experienced before.
He just couldn't get enough of her cunt. He would die with his fingers penetrating and spreading her cunt. He wanted more already, and he wasn't even a half-hour past his own bone-melting culmination.
She moved restlessly against his fingers splayed between her legs, enticing him to stretch her wider, to fully lay open every inch of her luscious inner flesh.
She loved his baring all of her nakedness; her body bucked as she felt his fingers firmly manipulating her in that most private place, opening her wider still. He held her there with a relentless mercilessness that was so arousing she almost came. Her body shuddered with excitement and agitation, because it was too much and it was exactly what she craved.
And if he even touched her clit, she would dissolve and explode.
Not yet, not yet. She wanted to float forever in this hazy cloud of erotic anticipation. This was the best part. . . the moment before, because her mind knew exactly what was to come. Her body knew. Her arousal was so complete she was shaking with it, and staving it off.
She never wanted to come. It would break her, fracture her into smithereens. If she didn't come, she could carry this feeling with her forever. She would always be aroused, always steeped in yearning, always on the brink.
So much better to be on the brink where such incredible, inexpressible pleasure was possible.
Not yet not yet not yet. . .
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She rolled her hips, pressing against his splayed fingers even more tightly. She could barely breathe for the voluptuous excitement of it. Not yet not yet. . .
She felt him at her clit, she felt herself throbbing, seeking, her body reaching for the one explosive touch that would demolish her.
Not yet not yet not yet. ..
She grabbed his rock of a penis, grabbing for sanity, for safety, for forever . ..
And he touched her, his one finger pressing against her distended clit, and her clamoring body burst into a thousand spangling points of molten light, glittering and cascading all over her, him, the bed, the darkness, and sizzling into nothingness in the morning light.
They stayed in bed another day, another night. An endless day and night, wholly immersed in each other, apart only long enough to let Emily in and out as was her wont. Fending off the darkness connected to each other. Seeking that indelible surcease only as one. Naked and open, together as one.
It was Poole who finally discreetly knocked on the door the succeeding morning. "Mr. Lujan? Mr. Lujan!"
He was deep in sleep, entwined with Jancie and barely able to move, because he was drained to the root, and he jolted to consciousness at the insistent knocking. "What? What is it? What?"
Not coherent. He pulled himself out of the bed and went to open the door a crack to see who had the nerve to disturb him.
Poole inserted an envelope. "This just came from Mr. Kyger, most urgent."
He ripped it open. Father in an accident, serious, possibly critical. Get back here.
It didn't quite reg
ister, but he wasn't quite awake. "Tea, Poole. In five minutes. Have the carriage ready in a half-hour. Jancie— wake up! We're going home."
******************
They arrived at dinnertime. Kyger was waiting, and by the looks of it, he'd been pacing in the front hallway the whole day, as if he thought the trip would take an hour instead of four or five.
He greeted them by saying, "He's not dead yet."
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"Oh, excellent news," Lujan snapped, instantly irritated by Kyger's anger and unwarranted bluntness. "What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong? I'm damned tired of cleaning up after you is what's wrong. Why the hell weren't you here? You goddamned abandoned Jancie, and you goddamned abandoned him, and the hell with you . . ."
"Go to hell. What happened?"
"Horse bucked him off as he was saddling up yesterday."
"Jesus."
"He fell straight down, broke his back, hit his head. Doctor doesn't know the extent of the internal injuries yet. Or if there's internal bleeding. Or whether there's any spinal damage. We're in a waiting situation."
Jancie grabbed Lujan's arm; she was exhausted, both from the past two days in bed, and from the trip, and now this.
"Is he conscious?"
"Yes. Sleeping a lot. Medication for the pain. The prognosis isn't good."
"Can I see him?"
"Go right ahead."
Lujan took the steps two at time with Jancie following as best she could, and Emily right behind her. She didn't want to see Hugo like that. She didn't want to see him at all.
Lujan entered the room first, fearing the worst. Hugo was swathed in blankets, with no bandages in evidence, flat on his back, being fed some broth by a local woman who'd come in to nurse him.
"About time," he muttered around the spoon. "This is bloodv hell."
Lujan drew up a chair. Jancie hovered just inside the door, suddenly aware, just by Lujan's tenderness, how much he really cared about his father.
Hugo was not a villain to him. And she saw immediately how-much more complicated that made everything.
"What do you know?"
"It was Gunshot. He shied. Don't know why." Hugo took another sip of the hot broth, nearly choked because he swallowed So fast. "Fast. Up, down, hard on the ground, couldn't move.
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Couldn't move . . . anything—arms, legs, body. Just mouth, eyes. Voice. I can breathe—barely ..."
"God almighty," Lujan swore. "No one in the stables?"
"Didn't notice. That's enough, woman. I'm nearly dead anyway. "
"No—NO," Lujan contradicted him passionately. "Don't say that. Don't think that."
Hugo shook his head. "Nothing left. Not good."
"I'll make it good. Listen tome..."
But Hugo had drifted off into some drug-induced cloud.
"Jancie..."
She nodded. He took her arm as they went back downstairs.
He was so quiet. Jancie didn't dare say anything, but it felt suddenly as if the past two passion-steeped days had never happened, and he had abandoned her once again.
It felt as if he was a stranger, suddenly—wholly on his father's side now, and Hugo's sins would be washed away, no matter what events might prove later on.
And where was she in this scenario? She was the interloper, still hovering on the threshold, prevented from entering and unable to leave.
******************
Emily comforted her a little; now she could take her rest, and let her body relax its grinding and urgent need for Lujan and sex. There would be no sex for a long time, as long, and beyond, as it took for Hugo to recover or for him to . ..
But she must not think that way. For Lujan's sake, she had to believe that Hugo would recover.
But then what?
Would one then confront a desperately ill man with the evidence of his treachery? Or would she let all that fade into history, and just stay content with her marriage to Lujan, the comforts at Waybury, and her mistress-of-the-manor life?
She sat in the library at the desk, staring at the hook-lined walls, wishing desperately she could talk to her father. If he were aware that Hugo was injured so seriously, he wouldn't wish her to pursue her desire to confront him. He'd tell her to ease up and slow down and forget about it altogether until Hugo recovered.
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Wouldn't he? Perhaps that wasn't a fair question. She didn't think anything would stop Edmund from wanting the truth to come out, but surely he'd agree this was a dire situation. And that it wouldn't do anyone any good to pose the questions and demand the answers she needed when Hugo seemed so near death.
Still, she wished there were someone in the house on her side—besides Emily—and maybe that was all her desire to talk with her father really meant.
Where was Emily, anyway?
"Madam."
Bingham, scaring her to death as usual. Wanting what?
Cool and calm. She must not let him discomfit her. It was her ongoing prayer. He still unnerved her just by his presence.
"Yes, Bingham?"
"Most happy you and Mr. Lujan are back at Waybury, madam."
"Thank you, Bingham." Cool, calm, aloof, removed.
"Does madam wish to have some tea?"
"That would be very nice." But she wondered why be was being so nice as she watched his paper-thin body slither out of the room.
Slither was the word. Bingham was a snake, striking in silence, never shedding his skin.
She felt surrounded by enemies. There was nowhere to go in this house, and even this room, in which she had found some comfort, seemed alien after several days away.
This room. Where, high above her head, on the topmost shelf in the most obscure corner, she had found that album of photographs.
How did one forget about that? Or the stone . . . the diamond . . . which she had wrapped up and tucked securely in her bodice. This was the proof, this was the one thing with which she could confront Hugo and know she stood on firm ground.
Except the ground was shaky, it was quicksand, and she might well get sucked into the mire of forgiving and forgetting.
Especially if Hugo—
But no. Not to think of that. Too easy to think that would happen.
"Madam."
"On the desk, please."
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"As you wish." Bingham set down the tray, bowed, withdrew.
A serpent in her garden. Watching her again, with his squinty, reptilian eyes. Still spying for Hugo, even now.
Even now. So Hugo was sentient enough for that. . .
And she still saw plots everywhere.
"Ah, the happy bride . .."
Kyger. Angry and popping off at anyone in his path.
Cool, calm. Forget he's Hugo's son, and that he had said sometime in the too-recent past that he loved her. "Have some tea."
"The ready remedy," he said caustically, but he didn't refuse it. "Madam Galliard, collected and ready for anything. Anyone. How do you do it, Jancie? How do you continually wind up in Lujan's arms after he's treated you like so much refuse?”
"I married him," she said carefully,
"You married Waybury, you mean. You married him, my father, me, the house, the farm. You don't need Lujan, actually. You have everything you ever wanted just as things are. So of course it's easy to take him back time after time. It has nothing to do with him, your marriage."
Too brutal, too honest. She couldn't deny some of it was true, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of giving any credence to his cold-blooded assessment.
And she loved Lujan. She had fallen in love with him all over again these past two days at the town house.
"Let me refresh your cup," she said instead.
He grasped her wrist as she reached for it. "I'm leaving."
"Perhaps it's time," she said, disengaging her hand and topping off his tea. He hadn't even taken a sip, and she poured too much and it splashed ov
er into the saucer.
"You don't want to know why?"
"What do I know? You know everything, Kyger. I know nothing, not even why I married Lujan."
He jacked himself up from his seat, and banged the cup and saucer down on the desktop, spilling tea everywhere.
She yanked the bell pull. "It's a beautiful desk—I would hate to see it ruined." A maid appeared. "Some cotton cloth, please" I'm afraid I spilled my tea."
"Yes, madam."
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She looked up at Kyger. "I think you're right. It's time for you to go."
"As I said—you married the house, and the life." He turned on his heel and left her just as the maid came in. She wiped down the desktop, she took Kyger's cup, and she withdrew.
Out the window, Jancie saw Kyger, mounted and riding furiously toward the village.
In her hand, she held a cold cup of tea. Cold comfort, at that. She didn't have Lujan now.
Hugo had him, held tight, by virtue of the almost certain possibility of his death.
Chapter Nineteen
She was exactly back where she had started—abandoned by Lujan, and searching for the truth.
Still.
Or did any of it matter anymore?
If Hugo died, everything would die with him. There would be no reparation, no answers, only the hanging, thirty-year-old question of whether Hugo had stolen a fortune in diamonds from her father.
And not having the satisfaction of knowing would kill her father. He had pushed too far for too long to have Hugo's secrets die with him.
To have had all this patience all this time, and ultimately come away with nothing ... all those years sweltering in the hot Indian sun for this one revelatory moment which might never come.
She couldn't let go of it. She had to know. And she had to convince Lujan all over again that it was her right, and her father's, to know.
He had identified a clue that could prove it.
He had believed it was possible. In London, in the swamping heat of their bone-melting sex, Lujan had conceded that his father could be a thief.
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