Dark of the Moon

by Karen Robards

  "What?" The single word was hoarse.

  She smiled at him, tremulously, going up on tiptoe to touch her lips to his.

  "Do this," she said against his mouth. And kissed him.

  XXVIII

  For a moment only he accepted her caress without moving. Then he made a sound like a gasp, as though he were dying, his arms slid around her waist to clamp her to him, and he was bending her back over his arm, kissing her as if he were starving for the taste of her mouth. Dizzy, Caitlyn clung to him, opening her mouth to his endlessly, reveling even in the sharp taste of whiskey which previously she had despised, returning his kiss with a fiery need of her own. Her arms wrapped around his neck as if she would never let him go; her tongue touched his, stroked it, and he shuddered. Then he scooped her up in his arms and took two rather unsteady strides toward the bed. Whether or not he meant to deposit her romantically thereupon, Caitlyn never discovered. What actually happened was that the tipsy creature tripped over his own feet and sent them both sprawling across the feather mattress. The ropes supporting it creaked loudly in protest against such unexpected violence.

  Caitlyn lay on her back where she had fallen, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, shocked at the abrupt change in the course of events. After a moment she turned her head, to find Connor lying on his side beside her, one arm pillowing his head as he rested with what appeared to be utter contentment amidst the quilts their fall had disordered. His eyes glinted at her; his mouth curled in the merest hint of a smile.

  "Fools and children," he muttered obscurely and flopped onto his back, smiling with rueful charm up at the ceiling.

  "Fools and children indeed," she said, sitting up and glaring down at him. "If by that you mean that the good Lord in His wisdom is protecting me from you, then I would say that He uses some peculiar methods. First that shameless hussy, and now what I would guess is a good bit more than 'a wee dram or two' of whiskey! You're drunk as a lord, Connor d'Arcy, and 'tis certainly not the work of the angels! More likely an agent of the devil!"

  "Now there you're out. Unless the devil's agent has disguised himself as Father Patrick, who tips a mean decanter. Father Patrick is surely one of the Lord's angels. He says you're a fleshly temptation I must overcome for the good of my immortal soul." Connor's eyes shifted from the ceiling to focus on her face. "Get thee behind me, Satan," he said to her and chuckled.

  "There's no getting any sense out of you tonight, I can see." Caitlyn said with disgust, getting off the bed and eyeing him with disfavor. His long legs were sprawled out in front of him, the heels of his boots touching the floor, his torso to the thighs supported by the bed. His arms were flung up over his head, and the remains of a whimsical smile curved his mouth. She had seen Connor in many moods, but never drunk, and despite her annoyance she had to smile at him. With his black hair escaping from its ribbon to curl around his head, his eyes twinkling, and that crooked smile lending a boyish charm to his lean, dark face, he looked so handsome that he took her breath away. He also looked very young suddenly, younger even than she. All this time he had looked after her. For once it was he who needed looking after.

  "What are you doing?" He lifted his head from the mattress as she straddled one booted foot, her back to him. The effort was apparently too much for him, because his head fell back almost immediately.

  "Taking off your boots. You don't want to sleep in them, do you?"

  "I have before. 'Tisn't fetal."

  "Well, you won't tonight. I don't think." This last was muttered under her breath as the boot in question resisted considerable tugging. At last she managed to wrest it off, freeing the foot and calf from the long slide of scuffed leather. While that foot flexed its toes, still in the confines of a white stocking, she went to work on the other. By the time she had managed to liberate the second foot, she was panting. Picking up the boots and setting them neatly side by side next to the bed, she turned back to look at him. He was watching her, but with the room cloaked in shadowy darkness relieved only slightly by the rays from the sickly moon that floated just outside the window, it was impossible for her to read his expression. She had the impression that he was making a concerted effort to regain control of his whiskey-befuddled senses.

  "Can you sit up?"

  His eyes shifted from their contemplation of her person to the ceiling. "Now why would I want to do a fool thing like that?"

  "Because you're still wearing your coat, and 'tis damp. If you can sit up, it'll make getting it off you that much easier."

  "And if I cannot?"

  "Then I'll cut it off you. There are scissors in the office."

  "That you won't!" He had a partiality for the coat, she knew.

  "Then sit up. Here, take my hands." She reached out to him. After a moment's hesitation he grasped her hands. Tugging with all her might, and with considerable groaning from him, she just managed to pull him into an upright position on the edge of the bed. He groaned again, slumping forward, elbows on knees, his head immediately sinking into the cradle of his hands.

  "My skull feels as if there's a legion of little people inside, all going at it with hammers."

  "Serves you right," she said without sympathy, easing the coat from his shoulders. "Strong drink is its own punishment."

  He grunted, lifting his head from his hands so that he could look at her. "You're no comfort at all."

  "Here, raise your arm. It seems you've had comfort enough tonight already. Is that not why men drink?"

  Obediently lifting his arms while she stripped the coat from him, he favored her with a wry glance. "I know not why other men drink. I only know what prompts me to it."

  "And what is that?" Keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder, she dropped the damp coat on the floor. His shirt felt damp, too, beneath her hand. As automatically as a mother would do for a child, she fell to undoing the buttons.

  A crooked smile twisted his mouth. "You, my beauteous Caitlyn. Naught but you."

  Her hands stilled and she stared down at him. "I see no reason why I should be held responsible for your foolishness."

  "Do you not?" His hands lifted to catch hers where they had stilled on his shirtfront. As his hands closed over hers, pressing them closer to his body, she became aware for the first time of her knuckles brushing the hair-roughened bare chest beneath the shirt. Her breath caught.

  "You are a constant temptation and torment to me, my lass, and I wrestle the devil for the salvation of my soul whenever you are within my view. Looking at you, with your soft white skin and rosy mouth, with your slanted eyes and tangles of silky hair black as the darkest midnight, to say nothing of curves that would tempt a saint, I am almost persuaded to agree with Father Patrick that you are devil-sent. Except that I know something of you that Father Patrick does not: I know your soul, and it is purely angel."

  Connor was not a man given to flowery speeches, and yet those were the most beautiful, eloquently spoken words she had ever heard. They touched her heart, moved her to tears.

  "Oh, Connor, I do love you so," she whispered, barely managing to get the words out past the constriction in her throat. For a long moment they stared at each other, he seated on the edge of the bed, clad in half-fastened shirt, snug black breeches, and stockinged feet, she standing over him, her hands clenched beneath his and pressed to his heart.

  "Ah, well, they do say the road to hell is paved with good intentions," he muttered and pulled her down into his arms.

  Caitlyn went with a little mewling sound, curling up on his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck, lifting her face to his even as his mouth lowered to hers. This time he initiated the kiss, his mouth soft and gentle at first and then hardening into fierce passion as she opened her lips to him, giving herself without reserve. She kissed him with all the love that she had bottled inside her for all those affectionless years, and with a woman's passion too; kissed him until she forgot where she was, forgot everything but him and her need of him, her love for him. When his hand found her breast, clo
sed gently over it with only the thin cloth of the loose nightgown between his flesh and hers, she clung to him more tightly, trembling, while his hand fondled her, seeking out and stroking the quivering nipples until they thrust urgently against the confining gown, aching to be free.

  "Caitlyn…"He lifted his hand from her breasts. Her eyes opened to meet his, and she could see the battle that raged inside him. Her misguided warrior still sought to fight the urges of his own body and soul…

  "I love you," she whispered. His eyes clouded, and his mouth descended on hers again, hungry and yearning. His hand found the buttons at the neck of her nightgown, undid them with unsteady fingers, and slid inside. Caitlyn's heart speeded up until she thought the pounding of it would beat her to death from within. His fingers slid down over her collarbone, over the first swelling curves of her breast to close over the whole, cupping and squeezing and fondling until she was squirming on his lap, delirious with need, on fire for more and still not knowing exactly what more was.

  "Let's have this off you, then." He was standing up with her, putting her down so that her bare feet touched the cold planks of the floor. For an instant he steadied her against him while her swimming senses sought to orient themselves. Vaguely she was aware of him bending to catch the edge of her gown. Then he was lifting it, pulling it over her head and throwing it aside to land in a crumpled white heap scarcely visible amidst the shadows that shifted along the floor. She was left to stand revealed before him, gloriously naked and trembling, while his eyes moved over her, an expression in their strange light depths that weakened her knees and shook her heart.

  Her hair fell over her shoulder to tumble below her waist, partially veiling her from him. He lifted an unsteady hand to tuck the errant strands behind her ears, smoothing the silken tresses so that they flowed down her back. Still he stared, transfixed by the sight of her, long-limbed and slender, pale as the moonbeams that probed the ceiling, as elusively lovely as the night itself. Her masses of raven hair exactly matched the silky triangle between her thighs. Her high, firm breasts with their pink puckered nipples gleamed in the darkness. Her eyes gleamed too, soft and mysterious and liquid with love as they searched his face. He stared at her, and she turned her head, pressing her lips to his hand where it rested against her ear. He trembled, reaching for her, pulling her close. Her eyes fluttered shut and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  His breathing was fast and shallow as he lowered her to the bed, coming down hard on top of her, their feet still touching the floor. His much greater weight sank her deep into the mattress, her thighs parting of their own accord as the cradle of his hips wedged between them, the wool of his breeches abrasive against her softness as he pressed himself to her. The sensation made her head spin. She caught her breath in a little gasp, and he pressed himself against her again. She could feel the heat and hardness of him, swollen taut and straining against his breeches, rubbing against that part of her that was open and vulnerable and aching for him. She cried out, moving wildly beneath him, her breasts lifting to thrust mindlessly against his linen-covered chest. He was still fully dressed, and it drove her wild. She wanted him naked, as naked as she. Her hands tangled in his shirt front, yanked. The shirt popped open with the sound of flying buttons. She stroked his chest, ran her fingers over the muscles, touched the flat nipples.

  "Oh, Jesus, this goes too fast." His mutter was thick and tormented as he bent his head to her sobbing mouth, kissing her with a wild, shaking passion while his hand slid between their bodies to fumble with the buttons on his breeches. At last he was free, pressing hotly against her. Caitlyn cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth, her back arching and her nails clawing at his chest as he probed at her softness, found the hot liquid center of her that throbbed and burned and ached for his possession. With a sudden, uncontrolled thrust he breached the opening, entering a scant inch or so before catching himself and holding back. She could feel the trembling in his arms as he fought to exert control.

  "Connor…" His name was not more than a breath whispered into his mouth. Her hands clenched on his shoulders; her body moved urgently beneath his.

  "I don't-I don't want to hurt you." The words were so hoarse they were scarcely intelligible. Then, as if the thought were father to the deed, he groaned and thrust, hitting her maidenhead and thrusting again, convulsively.

  She cried out, eyes flying open, caught by surprise by the pain she had not expected as he broke through the barrier to embed himself deep inside her. Sweat beaded his brow, dripped from his jaw. His eyes when he opened them at her cry were hot and glazed. He saw her pain, saw her teeth sink deep into her lower lip, and shuddered before he clutched her close again, his eyes closing as he arched over her.

  "I'm sorry. Sorry," he whispered against her neck. But he did not stop, could not stop, thrusting into her again and again with a hungry violence that was everything she had ever suspected the darker side of a man's passion might be. With any other man, she would have been terrified, horrified, repulsed, and disgusted. She would have fought, screaming and clawing, to be free of this pain that threatened to rend her in two. But this was Connor, her love. He would never harm her willingly. This savage act was what men did to women all over the world, from the be- ginning of time. He had warned her against it, tried to protect her from it. It was the price she had to pay for belonging to him, and she was willing to pay that price. For his pleasure, she would endure pain. Twining her arms around his neck, she shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, and held him while he sweated and pumped and groaned. By the time he was through, spending himself with a wild cry before collapsing, panting, on top of her, the pain had subsided to a dull ache, and she was able to perceive that she would be able to endure this man-woman thing again. For Connor.

  Only for Connor.

  XXIX

  He lay atop her for long moments afterward while she stroked the sweat-damp back of his neck beneath his hair. Finally he lifted his head to look at her. She met that look and smiled at him rather tremulously. He groaned again, shutting his eyes as if the sight of her pained him. Then he withdrew and rolled off her, taking her with him so that she was cuddled against his side, her head on his shoulder, her arm resting on his hard waist just above the opened breeches.

  "I should be shot," he said through his teeth, his eyes still shut. His arm tightened around her. Looking up at that lean, dark face, Caitlyn saw his eyes open to slant a look down at her. "I'm sorry, so damned sorry. I just couldn't stop, or exert any control at all. I never meant to hurt you."

  "It…it wasn't that bad. Really." He looked so angry that she had to reassure him. Timidly she stroked his chest. The hairs felt rough beneath her fingertips, the skin itself warm and moist. His jaw clenched.

  "It wasn't that bad," he echoed with a grim laugh. Sitting up, he leaned over her, shirt gaping open, to drop a kiss on her mouth. "My own, I have bedded dozens, no, scores of women in my life. And not one of them has ever said to me afterward, 'It wasn't that bad.' "

  "Well, you see, I love you, so that likely makes a difference." She said this so seriously that he could only stare down at her for a dumbfounded moment. Then he laughed again, the sound as grim as before.

  "What will it take to make you believe that making love is usually very pleasurable, I wonder? For the woman as well as the man. God forgive me, I should never have taken you at all, but since I did I should have used more care. I've been wanting you so much, for so long… I forgot you're scarcely more than a child. I can only blame the whiskey-and you. You went to my head as much as the spirits did. But I should have gone slow, should have prepared you. The next time, I promise you, it won't hurt. You'll like it. 'Twill get better and better, until you're begging me to make love to you at every opportunity and I'm fighting you off night and day till I'm worn to a bone."

  She looked up at him with doubt plain in her eyes, clearly unconvinced.

  "I promise," he said. She eyed him. He studied her for a moment, then got to his feet.
/>   "What are you doing?"

  "Getting undressed."

  "Oh." She sounded as uneasy as she felt.

  He suited the action to the words, shrugging out of the shirt she had all but destroyed and sliding out of his breeches. Sitting up and wrapping the uppermost quilt around herself, Caitlyn watched with some trepidation and more interest as he sat down on the chair in the corner of the room to roll off his stockings. Though the shifting darkness obscured much detail, she could see that he was magnificently made. Broad shoulders and muscular arms tapered down into a wide chest roughened by a V of dark, curling hair before tapering still more into narrow hips and a muscle-ridged abdomen. Her eyes skimmed over the next part of him, the man part, to move down the long, powerful legs. She was not yet ready to fully see what had caused her pain. He was standing again, naked now, moving toward her. A stray moonbeam glinted off his eyes. He was watching her watch him, and the knowledge made her blush.

  "Up with you."

  She looked up at him wide-eyed as he held out a hand to her, clearly meaning her to get off the bed. Seeing that he was waiting patiently for her to comply, she scrambled to her feet, still clutching the quilt. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt horribly shy. But he didn't look at her, busying himself with smoothing the bed and turning down the covers with easy efficiency. Outside, the rain had begun to come down in earnest, the droplets making a rhythmic patter against the roof. The fire in his room had gone out hours before, and it was cold as well as dark. Caitlyn curled her bare toes against the chill of the floor, wondering uneasily if his actions were her cue to take herself back to her own room. Never having been with a man before, she was not exactly certain what one did afterward.

  "Climb in." Plumping the last pillow, he turned to her, his eyes sharp as they moved over her face. Caitlyn looked from him to the cozily turned-down bed uncertainly.