Her guess as to the answer gave her the strength to push him away.
"You're nothing but a dog in the manger," she said bitterly, and to emphasize her disillusion she drew her hand across her mouth as though to wipe away the taste of his kiss.
"What does that mean, pray?"
He was looking down at her, his face in shadow but his eyes glittering as brightly as the stars.
"You don't want me yourself, but you don't want anyone else to have me, either."
"Whatever gave you the notion that I don't want you?" Even as her heart speeded up at that, his lips curled into a nasty, mocking smile. Then, shocking her into immobility, his hand lifted to cup and squeeze her left breast. The soft globe nestled into the palm of his right hand as if it belonged there. Jessie could feel the heat of his skin burning hers through the double layers of her wrapper and nightdress. For a moment she couldn't so much as breathe.
"I do want you. And it's clear"—his thumb ran suggestively over the nipple, which sprang to desperate attention at his touch—"that you also want me."
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"How dare you!" Immobile no longer, Jessie made an inarticulate sound of rage and knocked his hand away. It was plain from the obnoxious smile with which he met her outraged eyes that he'd meant merely to demonstrate her helpless response to his touch. And of course he'd succeeded, in spades.
"I'd be willing to bet that your nipple doesn't do that for darling Mitch."
"You," Jessie said through gritted teeth, "can go to hell!" It was one of the few times in her life that she'd ever sworn aloud, and it felt good. Triumphant, she turned away, to seek shelter in the safety of her bedroom. But Stuart, the devil, was laughing.
"Ah, how fickle is woman! Was it only the other night that you said you loved me?"
Jessie couldn't have been stopped faster by a punch to the stomach. She drew in a sharp breath, then felt a rushing tide of red surge up to cloud her vision. How dared he mock the most profound confession she'd ever made in her life! Her hands clenched into fists, her teeth ground together, and she turned on him with a sound of pure rage—to find him laughing still.
"You cad!" she hissed, and flew at him, feet flailing, fists swinging. He grabbed her upper arms and held her off—and continued to laugh.
"Now, now," he cautioned her, the glint in his eyes belying his smirking mouth. "You love me, remember?"
If she'd had a gun, she would have shot him. Fortunately she was weaponless—except for a long-ago piece of advice that Tudi had given her on how to defend herself against a man. 219
'Let—me—go! she spat, and when he did she gave a little smirk of her own, drew back her arm, and drove her doubled fist as hard as she could into his groin.
XXXI
Then she ran. She left him doubled over, cursing like a stevedore, and ran as if her life depended upon it, which it probably did. She had no doubt at all that if Stuart could get his hands on her at that moment, his first impulse would be to put them around her neck and squeeze the life from her.
The stable was her goal. She would saddle up Firefly and ride for her life, ride until she was exhausted, until her head was clear enough or her body tired enough to sleep, ride until Stuart had had time to recover from the black temper that her blow was certain to have put him in. It didn't matter that she wore only her nightdress and wrapper, or that her feet were bare. It didn't matter that it was gone midnight. Her impulse was to get away, far away, from Mimosa—and Stuart. She would ride until she felt like coming home again, however long that might be. The grass was cool and damp against her feet, with an occasional rock to bruise the tenderness of her sole. Jessie stepped on a spiny holly leaf as she neared the stable door, and had to stop to pull it from her foot before she could proceed. She was bending down, her wounded foot on the opposite knee while she yanked the leaf free, when she be-came aware of Stuart running as lightly as an Indian in pursuit of her.
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Hurt foot or no, Jessie sprinted for the stable like a wild thing. It was dark as a cave inside, the horses all quiet in their stalls, Progress asleep high above in the loft. Jasper sprang up from his bed of hay with a "Woof!" only to quiet down when he discovered the intruder was his mistress. With Stuart so close behind, Jessie knew that her chances of escaping his vengeance were slim. But she hoped that, with the advantage of darkness and her superior knowledge of the stable, she might be able to get a saddle on Firefly and then ride the mare out right under Stuart's nose. Once she was mounted, he wouldn't be able to stop her. If she had to, she would run him down.
The tack room was at the far end of the barn. With Jasper galloping at her heels, clearly under the impression that this was a new game, Jessie pulled the door open and rushed inside. The door shut on its own behind them, barely missing Jasper's tail. Sacks of grain littered the floor, some full, some half full. Saddles were slung over sawhorses in the middle of the room. More saddles hung from pegs, as did bridles and brushes and the countless other pieces of paraphernalia necessary to properly care for horses. A tiny window opposite the door let in moonlight. The silvery beam helped Jessie to avoid tripping over any of the various obstacles in her way as she snatched Firefly's bridle from the peg where it hung.
The bridle dangled from one hand while she scanned the pegs for her saddle. Jessie found it, and was stretching up to unhook the stirrup from the peg that held it when the door to the tack room opened on its silent leather hinges. Jasper woofed, then bounded toward the newcomer. Jessie whirled, swallowing hard. 221
Stuart was silhouetted in the aperture, a darker, more solid shape against an infinity of darkness.
"Get him, boy!" Jessie hissed, only to be confounded as the traitorous hound jumped up on the man, tail wagging furiously. Stuart didn't even stagger. He gave Jasper a quick pat on the head, said, "Down!" in the voice of a master, and was immediately obeyed. Then Stuart gave the dog a shove through the door, said, "Go to bed, sir!" and closed the door with Jasper on the other side of it.
To Jessie's dismay, the dog didn't even whimper for
readmittance. Her loyal protector was clearly as much butter in Stuart's hands as were everyone and everything else at Mimosa.
"Now, then, Jessie," Stuart said. From the silky tone of his voice Jessie knew that he was every bit as angry as she'd feared he's be.
"If you lay so much as a finger on me, I'll scream the rafters down!"
Despite her threat, her words were a harsh whisper. Sne could not be the cause of a confrontation between Stuart and Progress, and she knew it. Indeed, even if she screamed and Progress, who in his later years slept like the dead, heard her, whether he would then be on her side was doubtful. He too had succumbed to Stuart's charm long since. Was there no one who was immune to the crafty devil?
"Scream all you like, because I intend to lay much more than a finger on you."
Although tlwre was not enough light to permit her to see his face clearly, Jessie was sure from the sound of his words that his teeth were clenched. As he approached her, looming large in the darkness, her hand fell away from the saddle and she moved 222
back, away from him. He continued to stalk her until her back was against the wall and there was nowhere else for her to go.
"Trapped, Jessie?" The words were very soft, but no less menacing for all that. Jessie knew Stuart wouldn't harm her, but still a frisson of fear shivered up her spine. He looked so very tall and menacing in the darkness. His eyes, the only part of him that was clearly visible, glittered through the gloom like the stars in the sky outside. Her back was pressed so hard against the rough plank wall that she could feel the texture of it clear through her garments to her skin. Her bare toes curled against the grittiness of scattered bits of grain and straw. Her eyes were wide and fixed on his face—and her fingers were wrapped around the cool leather straps of the bridle.
The bridle. She was not quite defenseless, after all.
"Get back!"
Jessie lashed out at him, only to have the bridle cau
ght and jerked from her hold. "Oh!"
Stuart tossed the bridle aside. It landed on the floor with a jangle of metal.
"Now what? Are you going to kick me? Slap me? Scratch me?
Hit me where no young lady has any business hitting a man? Or is it finally my turn?" There was something curious in his tone, something that was not anger at all.
"Stuart . . ." Jessie's heart was pounding, whether from fear or something else she didn't know. Her eyes were huge as she looked at him through the darkness. Her hands were suddenly very cold. Moonlight glinted off his eyes as he reached for her, catching her wrist and pulling her toward him. All the fight had left Jessie. Unresisting, she let him draw her forward until a mere hand-breadth of space separated them. His hand circling her 223
wrist was the only part of him that touched her, but every millimeter of her skin was tingling.
"I don't want you marrying that Todd boy." His voice was rough.
"Stuart . . ." Oddly enough, the only word that seemed able to force its way out of her dry throat was his name. He was looming over her, using his sheer size to try to dominate her, to bend her to his will. The hard, muscular strength of him took on a life of its own in the darkness, and she thrilled to it. "You said you loved me."
This time the reminder didn't drive her into a frenzy. This time he wasn't mocking her. His voice was low, his hand on her wrist warm and strong and yet not hurting.
"You can't wed him if you love me."
"Stuart ..." There was an ache in her voice. Her heart was swelling inside her even as her bones were melting. He was barely touching her, but already he was making her his. She was on fire, burning up with love and something more, and he was the only thing on earth that could put out the flames.
"I won't permit you to marry him, do you hear?" He gave her wrist a little shake.
"Stuart." Jessie took a deep breath, then was finally able to talk. She should explain, she knew, about accepting Mitch, but explanations could wait. Everything could wait, except the need that was consuming her alive. "I do love you, Stuart."
"Oh, God!" It was a groan. He might have pulled her to him, or she might have stepped into his arms, she didn't know. But in a fraction of a breath Jessie found herself plastered against him, her arms winding tight around his neck, his arms locking her to him as he bent his head to find her mouth.
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There was nothing at all gentle about this kiss. He kissed her as if he were starving for the taste of her mouth, as if he could never get enough. Jessie met the sweet plunder of his tongue with a wild excitement of her own, straining on tiptoe against him, her nails digging into the vulnerable nape of his neck. He tasted of whiskey, and since it was Stuart who tasted so, she suddenly loved the taste. His jaw was prickly with bristles, but since it was Stuart who scraped her soft skin, she loved the feel of it. His hold on her was tight enough to crack her ribs and deny her breath, but she loved that, too. She loved everything that he was doing to her so much that she was dizzy with it. So much that when she kissed him back she made soft little mewling sounds into his mouth without even being aware that she was doing so. So much that when she felt the rising bulge of him, she pressed herself against it, rubbing, instinctively seeking to ease the ache between her legs.
"Christ, Jessie!" It was a groan as his mouth slid from her lips to her neck, then lower, to find and claim the tip of her breast. As the moist heat of his mouth burned through the cloth, Jessie cried out. Pure fire shot along her nerve endings, and her knees buckled. He caught her up in his arms. For just a moment his head lifted, and he looked around. Then, even as she whimpered a protest, he moved with her, stepping over the grain sacks and saddles to lower her to the floor. Even as he came down beside her, Jessie realized that he had found a haphazard pile of empty grain sacks to use as a bed.
"I've wanted you—how I've wanted you," he whispered hoarsely as he claimed her mouth again. Jessie locked her arms around his neck and was lost. She had no thought of right or wrong, no thought of danger to her person or her heart. All she 225
knew was that this was her man: the man she had longed for and waited for all of her life.
When he yanked the skirts of her nightdress and wrapper up around her waist, she clung to his neck and kissed him with feverish abandon. When he reached down between them to do something to his breeches, she pressed tiny kisses along his cheekbone. When his knees, still encased in cloth, slipped between hers to push them apart, she quivered and arched and cried out against his throat.
His hand was between them again, touching her in that place where no one had ever touched her, the place that was so secret she did not like to touch it herself even when she bathed. But when his hand covered her there, resting atop the soft nest of curls, the aching inside her intensified until she was shuddering with it, her thighs trembling, her body afire for something—
something. . . .
Then he rose a little above her, holding his weight from her with his elbow, while he probed at the quivering, burning softness of her with that huge hot man-thing she had felt but never seen. It seemed as though there was an opening in her flesh, because he was wedging himself inside. . . .
Jessie gasped, part in fear and part in ecstasy, and his mouth claimed hers again with sudden fierce ardor. His back arched, and the man-thing shoved up against a barrier inside her. Was this what men did to women, put their man-things inside them until they touched the barrier? It hardly seemed worth all the fuss. But no, he didn't seem content with that. He was pushing . .
. pushing. . . .
Some of the ecstasy that had been carrying her away abruptly took wing. He was hurting her. . . .
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"Stuart, don't!"
But her protest was swallowed up by his mouth. Even as she tried to turn her head away, tried again to tell him that this was going beyond the bounds of what was pleasing, he gave a mighty thrust that rent her in two.
XXXII
A single tear trickled down Jessie's face, which she immediately wiped away with an unsteady finger. She was lying on her back with Stuart sprawled atop her, his man-thing still wedged inside her, although minutes before he had finished the dreadful business of fornicating with a mighty groan. After that he had collapsed, pinning her down, his face buried in her neck as he drew in great, gasping breaths.
Jessie wished she could take some of those breaths herself, but his weight on her rib cage precluded any such luxury. The man weighed a ton. He was sweaty and stank of whiskey—had she really thought she liked the smell only a quarter of an hour before?— and from the feel of things between her aching thighs, he had gotten man juice all over her.
The very idea was disgusting. The thing he had just done to her was disgusting. He was disgusting.
And she hurt.
"Get off me!" Jessie finally found the strength to shove at his shoulder.
That, at least, had the effect of making him raise his head. 227
"Get off you?" There was a curious note to his voice, almost as if he didn't quite believe what he was hearing.
"Yes," she hissed, "get off me!" Stuart obligingly rolled onto his side. Propping himself up on one elbow, he watched as she jack-knifed upright. To Jessie's horror, the moonlight spilling through the small window provided sufficient illumination to reveal that she was naked from the waist down. Her belly and legs gleamed palely in the darkness, punctuated by the dark triangle between her thighs. Flushing, she yanked at her nightdress and wrapper, which had twisted around her waist, and finally succeeded in making herself decent. Then, despite her unsteady knees and her thighs that felt as if they'd been turned to jelly, she tried to get to her feet.
"Whoa, there!"
Stuart stopped her by catching her around the waist with his arm. He hauled her back down, then sat up himself to peer into her face. Angrily Jessie averted her face from him. Long fingers slid beneath her chin and tugged it toward him again.
"Don't touch me!"
With a petulant s
lap she knocked his hand away. Instants later one long finger was back, probing at her cheek, tracing the damp trail left by that telltale tear.
"I said don't touch me!"
"I hurt you." It was said in such a quiet voice that Jessie barely heard it. He sounded penitent, but she was in no mood to care if he was remorseful now or not. She had given herself to him without reservation, and he had caused her physical pain! The place between her legs still throbbed!
"Yes, you hurt me! Of course you hurt me! You— you put that—that thing in me!"
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Through the darkness she caught the faintest glimmer of a smile. Then it vanished. Stuart caught her hand and raised it to his lips. Although Jessie tried to pull away, he wouldn't release it.
"Jess. Jessie." He pressed her palm to his lips, then gently kissed each knuckle. Jessie was too mentally and physically exhausted to engage in the combat she guessed it would take to get her hand returned to her. So she sat glowering at him as he played with her fingers.
"Will it help at all if I say I'm sorry?"
"No!"
"I didn't think so."
Stuart sighed. Releasing her hand, he fastened his breeches, then scooted backward until he was sitting with his back against the wall. Then, before Jessie realized what he was about, he caught her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap.
"Let me go!"
"Presently. Sit still, Jessie. I'm not going to hurt you."
"A trifle late to be promising that, isn't it?" The fine art of sneering was coming more and more easily to her.
"Will you let me explain?"
"What is there to explain? You—we—fornicated, and now it's over, and I want to go inside."
Morning Song Page 20
