The Hawk and the Dove

by Virginia Henley

  His own bedchamber had been prepared for them and there was a light supper with wine laid out for them. A cozy fire had been lit and the room was filled with fresh flowers. He let her feet touch the carpet, but kept his arms about her possessively. “Are you happy?” he murmured against her lips.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed, “so happy, I’m afraid.”

  He slanted a brow at her.

  “Afraid we’ll never be this happy again.”

  “It will get better and better, I promise,” he said.

  “This is a beautiful room. It’s your chamber, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “My private sanctuary.” Reluctantly he released her so she could explore her surroundings. She looked through the tall windows, far out to sea. She ran a caressing hand over the luxurious furs on the bed and opened the massive wardrobe that stood in the corner.

  Suddenly she stiffened and a gasp escaped her lips. Her hand shot inside the wardrobe and pulled out a handful of transparent, erotically explicit garments. “Private sanctuary? You lecher! You whoremonger! If you think I’m going to sleep in the same bed as you’ve—”

  “My lord lecher, my lord whoremonger, Sabre. Remember your promise to always call me your lord.” The sheen of desire glittered in his eyes.

  “You will not touch me!” she spat.

  He grinned with genuine amusement at her protests and pulled her sharply against him. His mouth plunged down on hers and took liberties that reminded her vividly of the night she had lost her virginity to him. He crushed her body to him so she could feel the desire that drove him. He held her firmly, enjoying the twisting and turning of her soft body as she tried to escape him.

  “You will not!” she cried fiercely.

  “Oh, but I will, Sabre, I will,” he insisted as he deliberately unfastened her gown with sure fingers and pushed it from her shoulders. His lips seared a path down her throat and his tongue shot out to lick the high crown of her breast where it stood out impudently. His impatient hands pulled the remaining clothes from her body, but his mouth never left hers. He kissed her so hungrily, so demandingly, that a wave of pleasurable desire swept through her body, draining away her urge to escape. Suddenly her mouth softened and eagerly accepted the invasion of his probing tongue. She was lost, lost. The taste of him sent a wildness singing through her veins so that she flung back her head and screamed with the excitement he aroused in her.

  He undressed slowly and when he bared the dragon her eyes dilated with pure sensual joy. He groaned. “My God, it seems I’ve waited a lifetime for this night.”

  “And I,” she breathed, as her tongue shot out to taste the copper-colored nipples on his deeply tanned chest. He lifted her high and demanded hoarsely, “Open your legs to me, love.” She wrapped her slender limbs about his back as he lowered her onto the tip of his swollen shaft. He tightened his hold on her, going up inside her tight silken sheath inch by inch, and at the same time his tongue slowly filled her mouth until she thought she would die from the twin sensations.

  His strong hands lifted and lowered her buttocks in an exquisite rhythm that turned her to fire. Her fingers threaded through his long dark hair and she pulled his head closer to hers, for she could not get enough of him. Suddenly she went taut, then melted into him, tearing her mouth from his so she could cry out her pleasure.

  He kept himself firmly inside her and carried her to the bed. She longed for the great muscled length of him, the heavy weight of him atop her woman’s softness. A dark magic flared between them that they longed to continue forever. The feel of his hair-roughened chest against her rosy nipples caused such a heightened sensation, she knew she must scream again.

  He looked down at her eyes, drowsy with desire, her mouth so soft and ready to do his bidding, and was filled with such reckless male power that he thrust hungrily into her, holding her prisoner as he drove deeply into her hot, silken softness.

  With sensual abandon she arched to meet his every thrust so that he went deeper and deeper inside her. They both silently prayed that it would go on for long minutes more before they reached a climactic explosion, and miraculously it did, but then inevitably she felt her body contract from too much pleasure.

  Shane’s whole body ached with the need to release the pent-up desire that surged through him, and when he felt her body shudder with spasms, he could hold back no longer. His movements and his mouth became violent as he, too, at last knew fulfillment and his hot seed flooded into her.

  The rest of the night they lay clinging to each other, kissing, caressing, touching, tasting, whispering, then finally sleeping. Sabre awoke with such a lovely languor spreading through her body and into her breasts that she knew even in sleep his hands had stayed possessively on her body.

  Suddenly she was wide awake. “Shane, Shane, I forgot to tell you.” She shook him gently. “I’m with child.”

  He blinked, only half awake. “So soon?” he puzzled.

  “No, Shane, it happened long ago.”

  He was awake now as he demanded, “When? How long have you known? Were you with child when you demanded a divorce?”

  “Yes, but, I didn’t really want—”

  “God’s death, were you with child when you went into the Tower for the baron?” He snatched her by the shoulders and pinned her to the bed. “Damn, I can’t even beat you. You reckless little witch!”

  “My lady witch,” she corrected him, tossing her copper hair over her naked shoulders.

  He grinned widely, feeling himself to be the luckiest man on earth, then he reached out strong hands until she lay tucked in the curve of her husband’s body. He nuzzled her and sighed contentedly. “There’s no escape for you now, my darling, for we are truly one.”

  She mocked him lovingly. “What? No more dropping me from your arms to go running off on your adventures?”

  He shook his head. “You will stay beside me always, where you belong, close to my heart.”

  Enjoy the following excerpt from a writer of exceptional talent, Elaine Coffman, and a book that will capture your heart. My Enemy, My Love.

  April 1860

  Memphis, Tennessee

  “This is the Ragsdale Plantation?” the dark-haired stranger asked.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your master?”

  She blinked at him. “My master?”

  “Your master, my sweet simpleton, would be the person who owns this plantation and pays your salary.”

  She blinked again in confusion. “My salary?” Had the blow she’d dealt to his head addled his wits?

  “Hellfire! This conversation is going nowhere fast. One round of questions with you goes in more damn circles than a spinning top.” He scowled at her, his head still feeling as if it were making a few revolutions. “You do know what a top is, don’t you—that cute conical device that spins on a steel-shod point?”

  He was staring at her with an intensity that made her feel a few points below stupid. She hesitated, then her irritation, as it usually did, got the best of common sense. “I am familiar with the toy you speak of. Have you lost yours?”

  She had an inkling that restraint did not come easy to this man, for his entire body screamed irritation; his hands clenching in a manner suggestive of a powerful desire to be placed around her neck. Having acquired a pretty fair grasp of the somewhat monstrous, if not twisted, complexity of his mind, she decided to jump before she was pushed. “I don’t work here,” she said, her throat closing with the involuntary gulp that comes after being force-fed castor oil.

  She wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a thief, but she knew one thing—he unequivocally was a breed of man she was unaccustomed to. There was no decorous behavior, no soft and lilting speech, no glorious and dignified respect for her gender. Not one drop of the milk of human kindness flowed through his veins. He was everything a well-bred man was not: a resolute barbarian, wholly uncivilized, offensive, and basely crude.
His language was atrocious and unfit for a lady’s ears, his manners despicable— belonging in a barnyard—and his bearing bordered on debauchery. Any woman would be a fool to give him a second glance. She looked at him again.

  His eyes traveled across her face, not with cold indifference, but lingering on each detail with the heated devotion of a man with an appreciative eye for feminine flesh. The hot weight of his eyes on her mouth … Lord! Is this what it’s like to be kissed? Only better? She watched him across the short space that separated them, feeling her senses peppered by diversions, as if she could still feel the gentle caress of his breath stirring more than the soft blond curls that had fallen on her face. It was frightening, this new realm of perception, these new emotions not guided by reason. The onslaught left her uncertain and beguiled, unable to respond normally.

  “You may not work here, but it’s apparent you’re not the lady of the house. Who are you?” he said. “Some poor orphaned relative?”

  “Poor orphaned relative?” she repeated, her brow creasing in puzzlement.

  “Damn! My brains have been addled by a half-wit! I’ll see if I can phrase it simply enough for even your inadequate mind. If you don’t work here … and it’s obvious you aren’t the lady of the house … what the hell are you doing patrolling the premises like some three-headed dragon?” Immediately his face illuminated with understanding. “Of course,” he said with new insight, “you’re here for the amusement and companionship of one Francis Ragsdale. You’re his mistress, is that it?”

  It was the last straw, an insult past tolerating. He had thrown her to the hay, crushed the life out of her, cursed like a field hand, and now had the unmitigated gall to call her a mistress. Eyes shimmering with tears, she stammered, “What kind of monster are you to even suggest such a thing? I would never …”

  He saw the horrified expression in her green eyes and interpreted it correctly. “Spare me your incessant chatter expounding your virtue,” he said. She started to speak, but he cut her off. “I know, I know, I’ve shredded your reputation and defiled your honorable name. Tell me, angel, have you ever bedded a man?”

  She spoke with that puzzled softness compounded of confusion and distraction. “Not by myself, but I helped my aunt once.”

  “Hellfire and damnation … I didn’t know it could be a family undertaking.” He smiled then, looking at her with an expression that wavered between tolerance and disbelief. “I have a very lurid imagination, but the vast possibilities of what you’ve just suggested escapes even my creative powers.” He considered her a moment, humor playing about the corners of his mouth. “So … you helped your aunt bed a man, did you?” He gave her a lazy smile of admiration—considerably warmer than its predecessor. “Tell me, sweet … how, exactly, did you manage to do that?”

  She looked at him as if she were convinced fools grew without watering. “It was quite simple,” she said in that breathless little way she had, thinking surely no one could be this dense. “My aunt’s cousin, who happens to be a man, was kicked by a horse and I helped her put him to bed.”

  His entire body relaxed and one corner of his mouth tilted up in a rather charming, lopsided manner. Then a smile that would’ve knocked the most celebrated beauty in Memphis flat on her bustle split his face. “You,” he said honestly, “are either functioning with half a brain or you’re undeniably innocent. Tell me, angel, which is it?” Seeing her blank face, he added, “What I want to know is … have you ever done anything with a man that could make you pregnant? You do know where babies come from, don’t you?”

  She felt sick. Her usual headlong lack of caution had once again put her in a vulnerable position. “I didn’t just get off the boat,” she said, glaring at him. Please, dear God, don’t let him ask me that again.

  “Well? Have you ever been on a belly ride?”

  She tried her best to form a mental picture of that, her eyes almost crossing from the effort. But it was no use. Mental pictures didn’t seem to be forming. She directed an angry glare toward heaven. Thanks, she mumbled under her breath. What fool said, if God doesn’t give what we want He gives what we need? I need this? For the first time in her eighteen years she questioned the workings of divinity.

  “Don’t answer,” he said. “I have other ways of finding out.”

  They say the heart’s letter is read in the eyes … and he was sending her a billet-doux that would scorch the paper it was written on. She was green as gourds, as far as men were concerned, but a plastered wall could read the intent in those hot eyes.

  “You have the morals of a jar of slop,” she said. “I’d rather die than have you touch me.” She rose to her knees, forgetting his threat, the consequences if she moved.

  It happened so fast, she had no time to react. A hand shot out, clamping around her wrist, yanking her around and jerking her into his arms. It was at this point that she realized, for the second time that day, that a body was pressing her back against the hay.

  Feeling the sting of tears, she moved her hands to push against his chest. Beneath her fingers she could feel the restraining wall of muscle that surrounded a heart beating with irritation.

  “Dammit! Hold still!”

  Scorched but not defeated, she was gaining momentum like a rolling snowball. What had transpired between them, instead of making her submit, made her more stalwart in revolt. Every intolerable insult she had suffered made her anger more instant and furious. Like her prideful South, convinced she was right, she was determined to the last drop of her blood to defend her honorable person, despite the opposition. She was one angry, defiant woman.

  She bucked again, hoping she jarred his arrogant brains. She did, and the face before her loomed, ominous and dark. “I’m warning you …”

  Apparently unaware a woman and glass are ever in danger, she replied, “What else can you do besides curse and make threats? You better guess again if you think your words are going to frighten me.” Spitefully, she wiggled again.

  He contemplated showing her just what other things he could do. His head pounding, his patience tried, he looked down for a moment at the snarled ball of yellow fluff with the sizzling green eyes that were shooting daggers through him. For some perverse reason he found what he saw enchanting, and that irritated him. Then he made another startling discovery: The man who desires a woman that irritates the living hell out of him is supremely frustrated. And that made him speak with more anger than he actually felt. “For your benefit,” he said succinctly, “I will repeat myself once, and only once.” He paused, and then phrased the words with great care. “Keep … your … lily … white … ass … still!”

  Her mouth dropped faster than ripened fruit. They eyed each other, each one looking for a place to drive the fatal shot. His head was splitting and he wanted answers to some questions. Her nerves were frazzled and she wished she’d hit him harder. They were like two cats thrown over a fence with their tails tied together. Every time one moved it caused the other discomfort. Lamentable though it was, she was too angry to see the flash of compassionate admiration in his eyes for what it was. Honest.

  A disturbing smile curled across his lips. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? You afraid I’m going to toss your skirts?”

  The heart that had been pounding furiously crashed to her feet. She was too nervous, too frightened, and too inexperienced to artfully evade the bluntness of this brute with any finesse. “Toss my skirts?” she repeated, thinking surely he didn’t mean it literally.

  “Rape,” he said, feeling as deranged as she was from the thrill he received in scaring the overstarched drawers off her.

  She gave him a sour look. “It crossed my mind.”

  “A short trip, obviously.”

  Her flayed skin burned under the prick of his amusement, while her bewildered constitution considered another alternative. Feeling the stinging swell of tears behind her eyes, she discovered what a hopelessly embarrassing situation it is to be bested by a man.

  The stranger studied t
he delicate heart-shaped face, the tightly held mouth that tried in vain to quell its own trembling. The thought that he could have pushed her too far lingered like the after-burn of a slap. Intuition told him that overriding her fear was a spirit that would push her to fight to the finish. Any other time he would’ve given her a run for her money, but right now his head was hurting like a son of a bitch. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to rape you … at least I don’t think I am.”

  The darkening shadows within the barn lent sharp outline to the beauty of her face, but it was her hair that held his attention. He had never seen hair that fair, nor that curly. This woman’s hair had not been crimped; it crinkled and curled as tight as the wool on a newborn lamb, and of its own accord. He lifted his hand to rub the back of his knuckles across the fresh texture of her cheek. Her eyes, as they watched him, held the soft impatience of a little creature nuzzling for its milk. Little mouse, if that look was meant to distract me, it’s doing the trick, but I’m not too sure you want my thoughts headed in the direction they seem to be taking. He closed his eyes, sorry that he was putting her through this cat-and-mouse routine— ready to wring her neck one minute, wanting to feel her body respond with passion the next. He opened his eyes slowly, making no attempt to hide the sleepy, heavy-lidded look. “No,” he said, his words gently spoken against fragrant curls, “I’m not going to rape you…. Perhaps I’d settle for a kiss.”

  “Either way I lose.”

  His face darkened with annoyance, but his voice still maintained that tone of mocking sarcasm that made her want to slap his arrogant face. “You sound like a woman lacking experience in either.”

  The look she gave him declared her innocence, but she was too beautiful to be that. “Innocence or guile?” he said, then paused. “I wonder if it’s possible?” He closed his eyes, unable to distinguish if it was because of the dull throb in his head or his overriding impulses. When he opened them, he focused on her face, as if considering something for a moment, then he answered his own question. “No,” he said, “not innocence. Not with a face like that.” A tapered finger trailed from the point of her temple to follow the curve of her lips. “Poor buttercup. It doesn’t matter anyway.” He laughed a low, husky chuckle. “No, don’t look like a skinned rabbit. You’re safe for now. Thanks to this rumbling in my head.”