Not quite daring to hope, Catherine said, "You're about to say there is only one way to find out if you're right."
Michael gave her a long, level look. "I know I'm asking a great deal. Are you willing to try?"
"It was easier to go onto a battlefield during combat," she said with a shaky laugh. "But… dear God, Michael, I want so much to believe that you're right. That I'm a normal woman, that I'm capable of doing what almost every other woman in existence does."
He took her hand again. She looked down and saw the faint saber scar, and the sheer size and power of the warm fingers that engulfed hers. He was so large. So male.
The awareness triggered a sudden, ghastly memory of being a helpless thing trapped beneath a pounding masculine body. Of pain and violence that were degradingly personal. She pressed her fist to her mouth, her teeth biting into her knuckles. "But… the fear runs deep."
"Of course it does. It wasn't created in an hour, and it won't be healed in an hour," he said soothingly. "There are many, many kinds of sensual pleasure other than intercourse. You need to learn to enjoy them. Only when you've done that will it be time for the final intimacy."
She felt like a young bird being told it was time to leave the nest. All she had to do was jump from her nice safe bough and she would be able to fly. Unless, of course, her wings were inadequate, and she fell helplessly to the ground, smashing every bone in her body.
Seeing her indecision, he gently kissed the inside of her wrist. Her pulse accelerated under his warm lips, and heat curled insidiously through her.
"I swear I will do nothing-nothing at all-that you don't like," he said softly. "If you become uncomfortable at any time, simply tell me to stop. Can you trust me to do that?"
His green eyes burned with an intensity that touched cold, desolate places deep inside her. With a shock, she recognized that ever since they had met, he had suppressed his innate sensual power because he considered her beyond the pale.
That was no longer true. He desired her, and he was saying so with every subtle, voiceless lure a man could use to enthrall a woman. In the fact of his potent masculinity, she had no more will than a moth flying into the flame, seeking one transcendent moment of joy before being consumed.
"Yes, Michael, I trust you," she said huskily. "Do with me what you will."
Chapter 27
A smile started in Michael's eyes and spread across his face. "I'm so glad. I don't think you will regret it, either. We might as well begin tonight, before you have a chance to worry yourself into knots. Are you game?"
She immediately tensed. "Tonight?"
"First lesson only," he said reassuringly. "It will end whenever you wish."
He drew her from the chair into his arms, tenderly stroking her head where it lay on his shoulder. As his strong fingers kneaded her nape, she murmured, "That's very soothing."
"Since you like being petted, I think I'll treat you to what the French call a massage," he said thoughtfully. "Will you let me use your bottle of that lovely rose-scented skin lotion that makes you smell good enough to eat?"
"My Spanish lotion?" she said doubtfully.
He laughed, and she felt the rumblings of his levity under her ear. "You think I've gone mad, don't you? Don't worry, I promise you'll like this. We're going to turn this room into a delicious, and utterly painless, den of iniquity. First, a fire so the room will be warm enough for bare skin."
He released her and stood, then went to the fireplace. "Undress and wrap yourself in a sheet. And let your hair down."
Bemused, she did as he ordered. By the time she had brushed her hair out and emerged from behind the screen, swaddled in a sheet from the linen chest, the fire was burning steadily and Michael had made a soft pallet of folded blankets in front of the hearth. He had also changed to a green robe tied with a sash at the waist. It fell open loosely over his chest, revealing soft patterns of dark hair and hard planes of muscle.
She had come to know his body very well when she nursed him, but she had tried to make herself think of him only as a patient. For the first time, she allowed herself the pleasure of open admiration. He was beautiful, strong and well-made, utterly male…
The thought of surrendering herself to that strength chilled her. She turned away and silently got her lotion from the dresser. He examined her face shrewdly as she handed him the bottle. "We have a long way to go, don't we? We'll start with a single small step. How far the journey goes is up to you." He held out his other hand.
Shyly she took it. He drew her forward for a kiss. Gentle and undemanding, it loosened the coiled fear inside her. Her taut muscles eased as his hand made slow circles on her back. "You taste wonderful," he murmured. "Like nectar. Like music."
She actually giggled. "That doesn't make sense."
"Sense is not welcome within these walls tonight." He slipped his arm around her waist and led her to the pallet. "Lie on your lovely front and I'll drape the sheet over you. Then I will massage you, starting with your back."
She stretched out on her stomach. He arranged the linen sheet over her, the weight of the fabric settling lightly on her bare skin. She felt tense, acutely aware of her nakedness and vulnerability.
"It's easy to tell when you feel anxious." He knelt beside her and moved the mass of her hair to the side of her head. Then he opened the lotion bottle, rubbing the rose-scented fluid between his palms. "You become as hard as a piece of army biscuit. A soldier of mine was spared when a ball struck a biscuit in his pocket. Even a French bullet couldn't penetrate the damned thing."
When she smiled, he drew the sheet to her waist and began rubbing her back with slow, powerful strokes. His large hands glided smoothly over her flesh, kneading and softening the taut muscles. He was right; she liked it. She liked it a lot.
He was so unlike Colin. Though her husband had never been deliberately cruel, he had been vigorous and uncomplicated, and he had liked women who responded with equal directness. He had never once touched her with such gentle sensuality.
The air was heavy with tropical warmth, the sweet tang of the lotion, and the fragrance of the fresh flowers that were brought in every day. The world narrowed down to touch and scent and heat and the two of them. Michael varied his movements, sometimes working with his palms, other times using fingertips or heels of the hand to bring her body to tingly life. He paid special attention to her neck, easing away the iron strain.
She tensed again when he drew his hands along her arms, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. Yet the light, tangential touches felt wonderful. When he didn't roughly grab for more, she relaxed again.
He massaged her hands, finger by finger. The pleasure was exquisite. He was right, there was an incredible range of sensual enjoyment of which she was totally ignorant.
She didn't flinch when he pulled the sheet farther down. "You have the loveliest body I've ever seen," he said, his voice not quite as even as it had been. His hands caressed her bottom. "A perfect pair of hips has a shape rather like a heart. All kinds of symbolism there, don't you think?"
He began to knead her buttocks, molding the curving flesh with his palms. He seemed to know exactly how hard to press and how to find hidden knots of tightness. The contrast of smooth surface strokes and deep compression turned her muscles to wax. "Where did you learn to do this?" she murmured. "Or would I be better off not knowing?"
"My teacher was a delightful French lady whom I met many years ago, when I was newly down from university. She had been in Turkey, and was much impressed with what she learned in the women's bathhouses there." He rubbed the small of her back with the heel of his hand. "Sophie considered it her mission in life to spread Oriental wisdom to the West.
"She was a lucky woman." Catherine stretched luxuriantly. "Not everyone gets to achieve such a noble goal."
He drew his hands down her legs in long strokes, all the way from her hips to her ankles. There was a distinctly sexual component to her enjoyment now. The desire that had been frightened out
of her returned, flowing through her limbs like honey. Then his fingers brushed between her thighs with gentle intimacy. She froze, a thread of shivery excitement drowning in a flood tide of fear. "Please stop."
"Of course." He withdrew his hand and began massaging down her calves until he reached her feet. She relaxed, and soon learned that her toes were as blissfully responsive as her hands.
When he had reduced her to the pliable consistency of bread dough, he drew the sheet up to her shoulders again. "Turn over if you would like the rest of you massaged."
An hour earlier, she would have been too embarrassed and fearful to expose herself. Now she rolled over. As she did, the sheet slipped and bared one breast. Michael didn't move, but his eyes narrowed and he became unnaturally still.
"I don't know how much further I can go tonight," she said quietly, "but I want to find out."
"Then let us continue." He swallowed as he drew the sheet down to her waist. "Your breasts are superb. Beautifully full and womanly." He started to say more, then shook his head. "We don't have enough words in English. There's nothing stronger than beautiful. And colors-we need more colors. What would you call the shade of these?" He took each nipple between thumb and forefinger and teased them with exquisitely judged pressure. "Tawny rose? Blush gold?"
Her nipples hardened and heat pulsed through her. "Tan. Pink. Plaid. I don't care as long as you touch me like that."
He took her at her word, massaging the tight nubs until her whole body pulsed with alarming pleasure. Huskily he said, "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?"
"No," she whispered. "No, I wouldn't mind at all."
He leaned forward and claimed her mouth. The kiss was deep, deep, the heady stroke of his tongue fueling her fever. When he began to make feather kisses along her throat, she lifted her hands to his chest and shyly slid them inside his robe. He gasped and the muscles shivered under her touch.
As her hands stroked lower, hair tickled the heels of her hands and her fingertips found ridges of hard tissue. "You have more scars than anyone I know," she said ruefully. "It's a miracle you're alive and well."
"I wouldn't be if not for you." His lips slanted down her collarbone and over the creamy swell of her breast. The tug of his mouth on her nipple triggered a prickly yearning in the area between her legs that she tried never to think about. It was frightening, yet tantalizing as the serpent in Eden.
He shifted his position so that he was lying alongside her. Her quivery, fearful enjoyment turned abruptly to alarm when she felt the menacing jab of male flesh against her thigh. She tensed, unhappily reminded of where this was leading.
He muttered a curse under his breath and rolled onto his back. "I'm sorry, Catherine." Panting, he dragged his wrist across his forehead. "Damnation. I've about reached the limits of my control. If we are to go on, I'll have to remove the threat of this rude male organ of mine."
Her eyes shot open. "I beg your pardon?"
He laughed a little. "I don't have anything permanent in mind. The way I feel now, it will take very little to render me safe, particularly if you'll help. Can you do that?"
He was making it easy for her to refuse. But it was time she took some risks. For there to be real lovemaking, she must give as well as receive. "What do you want me to do?"
Silently he took her hand and brought it inside his robe, placing her palm on him. She wanted to jerk away when she felt the size and flagrant maleness of the throbbing flesh under her hand. Pain, violation, a cruel and arrogant weapon.
But this was Michael, not Colin, and he was a man, not a brusque, heedless youth. Slowly she squeezed.
The heated shaft jerked sharply and his whole body went rigid. "This… this won't take long at all," he gasped.
She had never realized that sex made a man as vulnerable as a woman, and she was startled to see how easily she could affect him. Her hand tightened on him with more confidence.
He arched against the pallet, sweat shining on his face as he tried to damp down his reaction. She closed her hand over the velvety head and squeezed again, at the same time rubbing the heavy rim with her thumb.
"Christ, Catherine!" A shudder went through him, and he jerked savagely in her hand. His fists clenched as his seed spurted into her palm. He was like a banked volcano, with suppressed violence in the tautness of his muscles, in the heaving of his chest and his harsh, panting breath.
Reflexive fear rose chokingly in her throat. Grimly she fought it. There was no pain, no harm to her, she was not a victim. There was no reason for fear.
By the time the stiffness had faded from his long frame, she was composed again.
He brushed back her hair, then rested his warm hand on her shoulder. "Did you find that distressing?"
She wondered how many men would be as perceptive. "A little. Mating is a wild, primitive business." She squeezed him very, very gently. "But what seemed like a weapon a few minutes ago is now as harmless as a baby chick."
He grinned. "That puts me in my place."
She used a corner of the discarded sheet to dry them both. Her fear had gone, leaving a wistful sense of loss. This viscous fluid was the seed of life. If she had found the courage to truly mate with him, they might have made a baby. Though she would love any child, it would be pure joy to bear Michael's.
He drew her close, his hands soothing away any lingering distress. How had he learned such honesty and kindness? The hard way, she guessed. Hesitantly she said, "I assume that was what you meant when you said it's possible for a man to find satisfaction without intercourse."
"Yes, though it's not only for men." He rubbed her lower belly with the back of his hand. "Have you ever experienced the female equivalent of what happened to me?"
She gave him a quizzical glance. "How can anything like that happen to a woman?"
The amusement in his eyes showed that she had betrayed woeful ignorance, but his voice was tender when he replied, "Though the mechanics are different, I believe the feelings engendered are very similar."
She hid her face against his shoulder. "I've followed the army, borne a child, and nursed the dying. It's embarrassing to know so little about my own body."
"Lack of knowledge is easily cured," he said calmly. "Let me demonstrate."
He lowered his head for another kiss. The intermittent desire she had experienced earlier returned, this time without the undercurrent of fear. One thing she did know was that it took time for a man's sexual potency to return. That meant she could enjoy his caresses without anxiety.
Now that his desire had been slaked, there was a subtle difference in his embrace, a rich, more leisurely eroticism. She responded hungrily. All of her adult life, she had been suppressing her natural appetites. Finally she could set them free with the man she loved.
His caressing hand moved ever lower over the curve of her abdomen. Heat smoldered through her when his fingertips trailed through the dark silky curls and touched the secret flesh below. She caught her breath with surprise.
He murmured, "Should I stop?"
"No, it feels… nice."
His lips found hers again. She trembled with guilty delight as his fingers probed deeper. The tender folds were slickly moist to his touch. Distantly she wondered if something was wrong, for that had never happened before.
His deft touch found hidden places that blazed with sensation. Her head fell back and she dragged gulps of air into her lungs. Delicately he slid a finger into the place where once there had been only pain. This time there was excitement, and a queer aching emptiness. Her lips pumped against his caressing hand, no longer under her control. She felt urgent. Demanding. She gasped, "Merciful heaven…"
His thumb rubbed across a tiny nub of terrifying sensitivity. Heat spasmed through her with shocking suddenness. Writhing helplessly, she locked her arms around him. The fire swiftly burned out, leaving her limp. "Oh, my," she breathed. "Is that what you meant?"
"Exactly so." He kissed her forehead. "Did you find it distressing?"
As she had lost herself in fear. "I'm horribly sorry that I lied to you," she blurted out. "I hated doing it, but I felt I had no choice. I didn't think I would ever be able to speak of what was wrong with me."
"Forgiven and forgotten." Michael lay on his side and held her close with one arm. His velvet robe was soft on her hypersensitive skin. "Less and less do I believe you're abnormal. Apart from being abnormally wonderful, that is."
"You make me feel so good." She rubbed her face against him like a cat. "Where did you learn such compassion?"
He sighed, some of his happiness dimming. "By making truly abominable mistakes."
"You said once that you loved-or were obsessed by- a married woman," she said hesitantly. "Was that one of them?"
"The worst." He hated speaking of his criminal folly, but it was only fair when he had forced Catherine to reveal her deepest shame. "She was the wife of a close friend. Devastatingly beautiful and utterly unscrupulous, though I didn't learn that until years later. She betrayed every man who loved her. From sheer malice, she did her best to poison the friendship between her husband and me, and very nearly succeeded."
His throat closed as he remembered the years of hell, and of the child Caro had been carrying when she died- the child that was probably his. The memory haunted him. "She said she feared her husband would kill her, and that I must avenge her if she died suddenly. Thinking she was exaggerating, I agreed. Then she died in a suspicious accident, and I was left with the choices of killing my friend, or breaking a vow made to the woman I loved."
"How ghastly." She propped herself on her elbow, her face reflecting his own anguish. "But you didn't do it, did you?"
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