His disappointment angered him. He felt like yelling at her, “Goddammit, woman, you’ve had a husband. You know what to do!” But before he said anything, he stopped and thought about it. Who knew what old Lord Geoffrey had taught his young bride? Maybe the old fellow had never bedded her and she was a total innocent. Then he remembered the sight that had sent him dashing off to kill six Indians and almost get himself murdered in the bargain. There’d been little doubt what she and Hargrave were doing on this very spot. He allowed himself a small, sardonic smile. That’s what this innocent act was all about: Her shock was well planned to make him think that nothing had happened between her and the captain.
Very well, we’ll have it your way, Lady Alice, he thought.
Gunn uttered an exaggerated moan and grimaced as if he were in mortal pain. “There’s only one thing you can do. Wrap something cool around it. Your hand, it’s cold. Yes, yes! Ah, that’s so much better. Come closer. Hold me.
Alice slipped one arm under Gunn’s shoulders, cradling his face against her breasts. She curled her fingers gingerly around the hot swelling and massaged gently.
Gunn couldn’t figure out what he’d done to deserve going to heaven before his time, but that’s exactly where he was.
“Oh, Gunn, it’s growing larger still and the fever’s rising. Am I doing something wrong?”
“No! Oh, God, no, Alice. Don’t stop… just don’t stop.”
While she was thoroughly occupied, Gunn lifted his head a bit, letting his lips press the firm mound of flesh rising from her bodice. Too intent on what she was doing to him, she did not pull away when he kissed her bosom. When he figured it was safe, he let his tongue dart out and smooth over her flesh. She said nothing, but he felt a definite shiver run through her.
“I think it’s working,” she whispered, an edge of excitement in her voice. “My hand seems to be drawing the fever out. I’m getting hot all over. Once you’re cooler, the swelling should go away.”
“I think you’re right,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, Alice. So right…”
Mesmerized by her task, Alice failed to notice Gunn’s hand sidling under her skirt. Not until his cool fingers touched her leg did she start. “Gunn, what are you… ?”
“Shhh, Alice. I need to hold you. It helps.”
She shifted slightly, to his advantage. His hand slipped higher until his fingers were within reach of their goal, but he paused, letting her get used to this new position first.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked softly.
“Beginning to”—he sighed—“but don’t stop yet.”
“I’m very warm,” she said.
“I know. Me, too.”
He smoothed his lips in a wide sweep over the top of her breast.
“Gunn, why are you doing that?”
He drew away slightly and looked up into her wide blue eyes. “Because it feels good.”
A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
Her words were the encouragement he needed. He slipped his hand up the rest of the way until it rested at the junction of her thighs. When he saw her eyes close and her smile return, he gave up all caution and began stroking her gently.
Alice’s thoughts went back to her wedding night and the things Lord Geoffrey had told her about feelings she would experience sometime in the future, when she found the right man. Could it be that the warmth, the tingling, the excitement she was experiencing this moment were the marvelous sensations her husband had been talking about? If so, his vague descriptions fell far short of reality.
“Gunn, what are you doing to me?” she half whispered, half moaned.
“Whatever you want me to do. Whatever will make you feel even better. Is that all right?”
She didn’t answer him. Her eyes were still closed and she seemed far, far away.
Raising his head again, Gunn caught the top edge of her bodice in his teeth. He tugged the outer fabric away easily enough, but her thin camisole remained in place, her breast straining against the sheer cloth. He closed his mouth over the distended nipple and sucked gently.
Alice’s eyes flew open when she felt the moist heat of his tongue, the friction of the wet fabric against her aching breast. But she was too weak with longing to pull away. His hand and his mouth were working together to draw all the strength from her body, leaving behind only soul-flaming, bone-melting need.
“I know what you’re doing, Gunn.” Alice’s unsteady words escaped from between her clenched teeth. By this time her mind was her own, but her body was his. “Lord Geoffrey told me that…”
“Shhh, Alice,” he whispered. “Don’t think, just feel.”
“I do,” she moaned. “Oh, Gunn, I feel everything!”
Her words fired his blood. Gripping the camisole between his teeth, he jerked his head, tearing the fabric. His mouth sank down, capturing her naked nipple. As he smoothed his tongue over the firm flesh, she trembled and sighed. Then he grazed it with his teeth, and she moaned aloud. Finally he sucked hard and long until she leaned closer, begging him silently with her movements to take her whole breast in his mouth.
Gunn lost all control. Damn his throbbing wound! He’d have her now or else.
Alice felt as if she were far off in some strange land, where pleasure was so great it was almost painful. She wanted… she wanted what? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, Gunn was the only person who could give it to her.
She heard her own voice, seeming to come from far away, calling his name over and over again: “Please, Gunn. Oh, Gunn. Help me. Help me…”
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, he gripped Alice’s waist, trying to lift her on top of him, but when he groaned with pain, she pulled out of his arms.
“No, Gunn,” she said as her sanity returned. “You’ll start the wound bleeding again. Besides, the swelling has gone down.”
He lay back, eyes closed, clenching his teeth in pain and frustration. He knew Alice had spoken the truth. The agony he’d just experienced when he tried to lift her had taken its toll on his passions.
“Sleep now,” she whispered, covering him with the blanket again.
For what little was left of the night, Alice sat beside him, wide awake, remembering all that he had made her feel… all that he had made her want.
For the next few days the weather held, allowing them to remain at their camp in the woods. Alice stayed by Gunn’s side day and night, giving him more tender, loving care than he might have received from his own mother. He responded quickly to Alice’s herbs, or perhaps to her just being nearby.
Meanwhile, a sullen Jonathan Hargrave was biding his time, waiting for Gunn to recover so they could have it out once and for all. But his rage festered as he cursed Gunn’s luck—it almost seemed that Christopher Gunn had managed to get himself shot through the leg just to get close to Alice.
Hargrave had tried to speak with Alice, but she was still angry at him for sneaking into her bed. Each day she gave him the same cool response: “You’ll have to pardon me, Jon. I’m much too busy right now.”
On the fourth day it was Gunn who sent for Hargrave. Alice had gone into the woods, searching for dried juniper berries, leaving her patient alone.
William Phips approached Hargrave. “Gunn would like a word with you,” he said.
“And I with him!”
The captain wasted no time. Moments later he stood at the back of the wagon, peering in at his rival.
“You wanted to talk to me. Good. I’ve been wondering when we’d have a chance to thrash this thing out.”
Gunn was propped up against one of the birch wagon ribs, looking pale, but alert. “Just what thing are you referring to, Hargrave? It’s Alice I want to discuss.”
The captain’s jaw worked in anger. “We plan to marry—you know that, don’t you?”
Gunn laughed. “Says who?”
“Lady Alice, that’s who.” Hargrave glanc
ed away and mumbled under his breath, “Or she as good as said so before you turned up again.”
This time Gunn laughed so hard that it ended in a grimace of pain. “You think just because you seem to have bedded her she’ll feel obliged to marry you? Well, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about me, too, if you think I’ll give up the woman I want so easily.”
Hargrave didn’t like the way the discussion was going. He’d meant to charge right up and tell Gunn what was what. He hadn’t meant for this to be a sparring match, but a simple laying out of the facts, the main one being that he intended to have Alice, no matter what.
“She doesn’t love you, Gunn.”
Gunn tilted his head to one side, looking thoughtful. “You’re saying she loves you? You’re mad! If I hadn’t come back, she might have considered marrying you. But not now. Not after what passed between us last night.”
Hargrave paled and stumbled back a pace or two. “You’re lying! You couldn’t have… look at you,” he stammered.
Gunn let a slow smile play over his face. “Ah, my good man, sometimes a little pain only adds to the pleasure.”
Hargrave blanched.
Just then Alice walked up with her basket of berries over her arm. “Well, Gunn, it looks like you’re feeling better.” She smiled at him warmly, her blue eyes dancing with sparkling lights. “Since my patient doesn’t need me, it seems, I finally have time for that chat you’ve been insisting on, Jonathan.”
The captain’s face looked like a storm out over the ocean when he turned toward Alice. He avoided direct eye contact and brushed quickly past her. “Never mind,” he grumbled. “It wasn’t important.”
“Whatever’s gotten into him?” she said, staring after his retreating figure. “I haven’t seen him like that since before we left the ship.”
Gunn reached out and grasped Alice’s arm, drawing her closer to the wagon. “Never mind him,” he whispered. “You’ve been gone a long time. Come here and tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“Why, Christopher Gunn, I think you’ve missed me,” she said, delighted at the thought.
He motioned her into the wagon and laughed. “Hell, woman, I guess I’ve gotten used to being badgered and bedeviled. What did you bring me? More poison to drink? Or do you plan to tighten my bandages enough to cut off the blood flow? Whenever you’re around, I can count on something unpleasant.”
Alice placed both palms firmly on his chest and forced him to lie down. “Unpleasant, is it?” She frowned down into his merry green eyes. “Well, we’ll just see about that, Mr. Gunn.”
She leaned down over him, blowing her cool, mint-scented breath across his face. A moment later her lips came down on his. Gunn lay perfectly still, letting her have her way with him. He hardly dared breathe.
Alice kissed him for a long, long time, letting the tip of her tongue play at the corners of his mouth and smooth along the line of his lips. She’d learned over the past few days and nights that all she had to do to experience the wonderful, warm tingling in her body was to touch Christopher Gunn. A gentle kiss could fire her as quickly as his stroking hands. Now, she delighted in partaking of these pleasures whenever she felt the desire.
However, this time, as her tongue stole into his mouth, Gunn sat up and gave her one good squeeze, then put her away from him.
“It’s not enough you cause me physical pain, now you want to torture me with tenderness, woman. Well, I’m telling you now and I’m telling you good, you keep your distance from me until this leg heals enough so I can do something about it.”
His voice sounded angry, but he was smiling at her. She wasn’t sure what kind of sport they were playing, but she was more anxious to make him well than she had ever been.
She gave him a flirtatious look from beneath her golden lashes. “I’ll try, Gunn, but I can’t promise.”
He lay back and flung his arms out to either side, uttering a deep-throated groan. “Oh, God, Alice, go ahead. Torture this poor broken body, if you must. I have to die somehow, it might as well be at your hands.” He raised his head, grinning, and winked at her. “Or your mouth.”
Alice giggled and tossed the blanket over his handsome, smiling face. “Fool!” she scolded.
“Only for you,” came his muffled reply.
But even as Gunn teased her, Alice could sense a change coming over him as he grew steadily stronger. She knew instinctively that his full recovery would somehow weaken their present intimate bond.
That very night Gunn tossed and turned in his sleep, keeping Alice awake with his mumbled cries. She could understand some of his words, but they made no sense to her.
Gunn raved about his father, screaming once in great alarm for him to look out. He spoke of death, of guilt, and of a woman named Cynthia.
Alice could not sleep after hearing that and soon gave up trying. The rest of the night she huddled in her corner of the wagon, dazed, feeling miserable. Who was Cynthia? And what had she meant to Christopher Gunn?
Chapter 8
When they boarded the ship for Boston, Gunn kept to his cabin. He was still recovering, but also had withdrawn from all the others and, Alice sensed, from her most of all. She saw less and less of him as they sailed down the coast. She had no way of knowing that his nightmares were still plaguing him.
A few nights out, everything came back to Gunn in vividly tormenting detail.
As he tossed in his bunk, his mind traveled back to his homeland. A homeland that seemed to have existed in another lifetime, lived by some stranger from long ago. In his dreams this shadow of the old Christopher Gunn meant to do battle with the flesh-and-blood man for possession of his very soul. His future happiness depended upon which of them won.
Gunn saw again the high-spirited boy he had been when his father was still alive. They had lived on his family’s ancestral lands at the edge of Lord Balfour’s Scottish hunting preserve. Although his father’s fortune was in near ruin and his London holdings were long since gone, it had been a good life they shared in Scotland, a man’s life—just the two of them, the strapping lad and his robust pa. Together they’d hunted the forests, fished the salmon streams, and made their own whiskey. When guests arrived from London, they had delighted in guiding them to the places where the red deer grazed and the partridge nested. Old Lord Geoffrey had been a good friend to them both, overlooking the indiscretions of the pair—his father’s heavy drinking and his own diddling with the pretty young servants of both households.
Gunn smiled in his sleep and mumbled, “Aye, it was a fine life.” Then he frowned as a less pleasant vision overlaid the previous happy one.
He saw his father trying to mount up to lead a hunt, but he had pulled too long at his jug. He staggered back from his horse, making three attempts before he was seated. Lord Geoffrey and several guests waited to set out.
“A fine morning, a good day for shooting,” Gunn heard Lord Geoffrey assure the others.
Shooting! The word echoed in Gunn’s brain, making him fight the covers on his bed as he twisted with anguish, knowing all too well what would come next.
He could still hear Lady Cynthia’s scream, drifting to him through the woods: “Holy Mother, I’ve killed him! Help! Oh, please… help him!”
Chris saw himself, the first on the scene. The rest of the party was far ahead, had not even heard her. He rushed to his father, trying to help, knowing even as he did that it was no use. The great, gaping hole between his eyes told the tale. He glanced up at beautiful, passionate Lady Cynthia, and he hated her in that instant. But there was one person on earth he hated more: himself.
Your fault… your fault… your fault! The age-old accusation screamed through his nightmare.
With good cause, he thought. He’d broken his father’s only firm rule the night before the hunt—he and Lady Cynthia.
“Ne’er do I want to catch ye tumbling with the lord’s lady guests, son. Sow your wild oats in the serving quarters alone. A true gentlem
an doesna’ tamper with another man’s wife. Tis a fast rule. Remember it or be willing to take the worst that comes.”
His father’s words had been like a warning of disaster to come. His father’s death had been a direct result of his breaking that rule, Gunn told himself constantly. Fifteen-year-old Chris had sworn on his mother’s grave, and he felt he had dug his own father’s grave by disobeying.
Still kneeling beside the body, he looked up at Lady Cynthia’s glittering blue eyes. A rising wind whipped her golden hair about her perfect face. Her proud, white breasts—those same sweet mounds that his lips had come to know the night before—rose and fell as emotion gathered in the very heart of her to send a flood of tears scalding down her cheeks.
“Oh, Chris,” she murmured, “I never saw him. I’d aimed at a deer, then it fled and out of nowhere he was there. My poor, dear boy—” Her words broke off. She reached for him with a placating hand, but he turned away from her in disgust.
Why did she still call him that? Last night, when she’d summoned him to her rooms, then convinced him that what he knew to be wrong was right, she had not called him a boy. Had it been a boy’s hands that stripped her of her gown, a boy’s mouth that burned kisses over her body until she writhed and begged for him, a boy’s tiny thing that had thrust into her, filling her until she pleaded for mercy? But he’d shown her no mercy, only passion—a man’s passion. When she came and wept and clawed at him, they had been not boy and lady, but man and woman.
“Are you all right, lad?” Her voice sounded again in his dream, as fresh as that long-ago yesterday, and with the sound of it rose the fury and the sickness and the lust.
He remembered little of the hour that followed his father’s death. He recalled going to her horse and dragging her down, kissing her mouth so savagely that she wept anew. Before he realized what was happening, she was lying, her skirts atumble, beneath him beside his father’s body, and he was viciously pounding away between her thighs, trying to make her beg again for mercy. Instead, she cried excitedly and clutched him and begged for more.
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