“Will you finally grant me ease, my love?” she asked, still laying in the mass of her hair.
The count leaned down and aligned his lips with hers, carefully kissing them as if they were rose petals in the midst of falling. Before she could take control of the kiss he put his weight fully on her body seating his hips in between her legs. A sigh escaped her lips as he broke away from them and trailed feather light caresses down the column of her neck.
Haidee arched her hips up into the count but it was not enough. He moved slightly in order to remove the pants that remained a barrier between them.
“We really should marry before I fulfill this need,” he said resettling into the curve of her body.
“Are you asking me for my hand in marriage?”
“Yes. I am asking you that exactly. Haidee, will you be my wife and travel across the world with me?”
“It would be my honor.”
The count shifted in Haidees arms so he could look into her eyes. Mesmerized and enchanted, like sirens at sea, he was hers completely. He slid his hand between them and watched her face change as his middle finger met that little pearl at her apex.
When she gasped aloud he took pleasure in the knowledge he could bring her to such sensations. He continued his ministrations until she clung to him desperate from head to toe.
“Do you wish to continue, my love?” he asked gently, removing his hand to adjust his turgid manhood pressed against her belly.
“If you stop now I shall never speak to you again,” she panted. He settled fully between her legs and opened her center to receive him. In one quick brutal thrust he took her as his own. She didn’t utter a sound, just the tight seizing of her muscles against him signaled how she felt.
The count sat in the hollow of her body until her comfort returned. Once she smiled up at him, a single tear glistening at the corner of one eye, he knew to continue.
He began to thrust in and out of her at a shallow angle allowing her more time to grow accustomed to the assault on her body. Only a few moments passed and she clung to him in passion as she had previously.
“Haidee, I do not know how long I can wait for you. It has been some time since I have been in a woman’s arms in this way.”
She did not reply. She simply grasped his arms and held her eyes closed as his thrusts increased in both frequency and strength.
As the count reached his completion Haidee’s name fell from his lips in a whisper and that single word was enough to drive her to her own end.
In the aftermath of lovemaking they lay dazed and content wrapped fully around each other, still joined. The count wanted nothing more than to enjoy this moment with his newly betrothed. Haidee had no thoughts other than complete and utter contentment on the realization of her dreams.
“I love you,” the girl whispered as she ran her fingers idley through the hair above his ear as he lay with his head between her breasts.
“And I love you,” he returned with no hesitation. An entire lifetime ago he thought he knew what love was. Alone in a shack with the one he thought the love of his life was nothing compared to the languid aftermath of lovemaking with Haidee. She was his destiny and it pained him that he only now realized it after so much time was lost between them.
“We will go to England and marry before going back to your home country. I know you miss it,” he announced still cradled on her chest.
“Whatever you wish, my love, I will be by your side.”
We will leave our star-crossed lovers for another pair: Valentine and her dear Maximilain.
• • •
An hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and motionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his heart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder, announcing the return of life, passed through the young man’s frame. At length his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and expressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and grief. “Oh,” he cried, in an accent of despair, “the count has deceived me; I am yet living;” and extending his hand towards the table, he seized a knife.
“Dearest,” exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile, “awake, and look at me!” Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful, dazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.
The next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking arm-in-arm on the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had appeared in her room, explained everything, revealed the crime, and, finally, how he had saved her life by enabling her to simulate death. They had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the azure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars. Morrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently awaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine. “Ah, it is Jacopo,” she said, “the captain of the yacht;” and she beckoned him towards them.
“Do you wish to speak to us?” asked Morrel.
“I have a letter to give you from the count.”
“From the count!” murmured the two young people.
“Yes; read it.” Morrel opened the letter, and read:—
“My Dear Maximilian,—
“There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to Leghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he wishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the Champs Elysees, and my chateau at Treport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dantes upon the son of his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them with you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother who died last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over your future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who like Satan thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now acknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme power and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse he feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my conduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of living.
“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—’_Wait and hope_.’—Your friend,“Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo.”
During the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the first time of the madness of her father and the death of her brother, she became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not the less painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her happiness cost her very dear. Morrel looked around uneasily. “But,” he said, “the count’s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine will be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend? Lead me to him.” Jacopo pointed towards the horizon. “What do you mean?” asked Valentine. “Where is the count?—where is Haidee?”
“Look!” said Jacopo.
The eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and on the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they perceived a large white sail. “Gone,” said Morrel; “gone!—adieu, my friend—adieu, my father!”
“Gone,” murmured Valentine; “adieu, my sweet Haidee—adieu, my sister!”
“Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?” said Morrel with tearful eyes.
“Darling,” replied Valentine, “has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words?-’Wait and hope.’”
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Mischief and Magnolias by Marie Patrick
Natchez, Mississippi
September 1863
Shaelyn Cavanaugh leaned against the railing
of the second-floor gallery of her home and focused on the two men coming up the road, their blue uniforms unmistakable. They rode at a swift pace, a trail of dust behind them.
Since Natchez, Mississippi, surrendered to the Union forces, it wasn’t unusual to see blue uniforms, especially since they’d made Rosalie, the home next door, their headquarters. But the two men didn’t turn into Rosalie’s drive as she expected.
Her breath caught in her throat when she glimpsed light auburn hair, much like her brother’s, gleaming in the sunlight. “Ian!”
His companion had raven-black hair, though it too reflected the sun’s light. Traveling with Ian, he could be only one man—the one she had promised to wait for. “James.” Her hand gripped the wrought-iron railing, her knuckles white. Tears blurred her vision. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm in her chest as excitement surged through her veins.
“They’re home!” she cried. “Mama!”
She lifted her skirts and ran for the outside staircase at the back of the house. “They’re home!”
She jumped, missing the last few stairs, and hit the veranda at a run, her skirts held high as she ran into the house through the French doors in the small sun parlor.
“Mama!” Shaelyn darted into the central hallway, her footsteps clicking on the marble tiles as she ran to the front door, flung it open, and rushed headlong into a pair of strong arms. She rested her head against a firm, hard chest, and squeezed tight. A button pressed into her cheek, but she didn’t care. They were home. “Thank God,” she whispered into the uniform.
“Well, that’s quite a greeting,” a deep, rich voice as smooth as drizzling molasses responded. Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Not expected, but certainly welcomed.”
“Hmm. Where’s mine?” his companion asked in the clipped tones of New England.
Shaelyn recognized neither voice nor accent and turned her head to glance at the auburn-haired man. Ian Cavanaugh did not look back at her, which meant she did not have her arms around James Brooks.
Her face hot with embarrassment, Shaelyn pulled away from the man. She drew in a shaky breath and stared. The most beautiful pair of soft blue-gray eyes she’d ever seen stared back. “Forgive me. I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously,” the man replied. “Perhaps introductions are in order, although after your greeting, it may be too late.” Amusement gleamed from his eyes as a wide grin showed off his white teeth in a charming smile. She wanted to touch the dimple that appeared in his cheek. “Major Remington Harte.” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is my second in command, Captain Vincent Davenport.”
“Miss.” Captain Davenport bowed from the waist.
Shaelyn nodded in his general direction, but her focus remained on the major. She’d never seen hair so black or so thick. An insane impulse overwhelmed her—she wanted to run her fingers through that mass of thick, shiny hair and feel its silkiness. Struck by her own inappropriate thoughts, she stilled. He wasn’t James. She shouldn’t want to run her fingers through his hair.
“Are you Brenna Cavanaugh?”
“What?” Startled, Shaelyn shook her head. “No, I’m her daughter, Shaelyn.”
Footsteps rang out down the hallway. Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the man in uniform for just a moment as her mother joined them at the door. “I am Brenna Cavanaugh.” A sweet smile accompanied the hand she offered the major. “May I help you?”
Introductions were quickly made, and Shaelyn watched the exchange of pleasantries, but her gaze was drawn back to the major. He looked dashing in his uniform. The dark blue complimented his eyes quite nicely. The material molded to his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders, lean waist, and slim hips. He stood tall, well over six feet she guessed, as her gaze swept the length of his body with admiration. She noticed a silver-tipped cane in his hand, which he leaned on. He must have been injured in battle.
She had always loved seeing a man in uniform. They stood differently: straighter, taller. Proud. They acted differently, too, as if wearing a uniform had something to do with how the world perceived them.
Her gaze met his and she felt the warmth of a blush creep up from her chest. A smile parted his full lips and her face grew hotter. She’d been staring at him and he knew it.
“Is this about Ian, my son?” Hope colored her mother’s tone, a hope she had tended carefully, like one tends a garden.
“Or James Brooks?” Shaelyn added.
“May we go inside?” Major Harte gestured toward the open door.
“Where are my manners?” Brenna smiled. “Of course.” She turned to Shaelyn. “Please show our guests into the sun parlor, dear. I just finished making tea.”
With effort, Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the major and the pulse throbbing in his neck, above the collar of his uniform, which had mesmerized her. “Please follow me.”
Major Harte’s uneven footsteps echoed in the hallway and the tip of his cane tapped on the marble tiles as Shaelyn showed them into a small, comfortable, sun-filled room at the back of the house, while Brenna pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
“Thank you.” The major moved to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantle while Captain Davenport sat on a rattan love seat.
Shaelyn sank into a chair across from the captain, her fingers settling into one of the rattan grooves, and let out a slow breath—anything to still the anxiety plucking at her spine with its icy fingers and chilling her from the inside out. After a moment, the heat of the major’s gaze rested on her, negating that chill. He didn’t speak as she turned to face him, nor did he smile, but the warmth in his slate-colored eyes captured and held hers.
She opened her mouth, but no words issued forth. She didn’t know what to say. Or do. She’d never had to entertain Union officers, although her brother had marched off to war wearing blue. In all truth, she hadn’t entertained in a very long time, and the lessons her mother had taught her about proper decorum and genteel manners simply escaped her.
Captain Davenport didn’t speak either, and a heavy stillness filled the room, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. An ominous sense of foreboding stole through Shaelyn with each passing minute. Her heart pounded, not with excitement now, but with dread. A lump rose to her throat. She knew, deep down, whatever the reason for these men to be here, no good would come of it.
Brenna entered the parlor and broke the silence. “Shaelyn, would you please pour?” Her mother placed a silver tea service on the table in front of the divan and took a seat in her favorite wicker chair.
Shaelyn rose from her seat, though her entire body trembled. With shaking hands, she lifted the teapot and started to pour. A few drops of the dark brew spilled onto a linen napkin on the tray and stained it brown.
She glanced up and caught the major’s wince before he addressed his second in command. “Captain, would you be so kind?”
“Of course.” Captain Davenport leaned forward and took the pot from her hands.
Shaelyn gave him a tremulous smile. Every muscle and sinew in her body tensed with apprehension as she moved behind the settee, her hand resting on her mother’s shoulder.
Captain Davenport handed Brenna her teacup and attempted to give one to Shaelyn as well, but she declined without a word, afraid her voice wouldn’t work over the lump constricting her throat.
Major Harte straightened and limped over to the chair opposite the divan, a grimace tightening his features. Shaelyn watched his painful progress and a surge of sympathy rippled through her.
“Now, Major, please tell us why you’re here. If it’s bad news, don’t make us wait, I beg you.” Brenna’s voice shook as she said the words. She grabbed Shaelyn’s hand and squeezed.
He hesitated. Shaelyn wanted to drag the words from his mouth. Whatever he needed to say, she just wished he’d do it. He took a deep breath. She prepared herself, swallowing hard against the bile burning the back of her throa
t.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh, are you the owner of Cavanaugh Shipping and the steamboats the Brenna Rose, the Lady Shae, and the Sweet Sassy?”
“Since my husband passed away,” Brenna replied. “Yes, I am, but Shaelyn runs the business. She’s quite good at it, despite this terrible war.”
“And are you the owner of record for this home, Magnolia House, and the warehouse and shipping office located in Natchez-Under-the-Hill?”
“What is this all about, Major?” Shaelyn asked. She didn’t like the expression on the major’s face at all. He seemed sad almost, as if he didn’t relish what he needed to do, and her dread intensified, those icy fingers no longer plucking at her spine, but squeezing her heart. She stiffened against the blow that was sure to come.
He removed a document from his uniform pocket, slowly unfolded it, and began to read. “By the order of the government of the United States, for the duration of this war or until they are no longer needed,” he said softly, “you are hereby commanded to relinquish your home, steamboats, warehouse, and shipping office to the Union Army. Specifically, me.” He glanced at Shaelyn, an apology in his eyes.
“What!” Shaelyn let go of her mother’s hand and came around the sofa on legs that felt like wooden stumps instead of flesh and bone. “You can’t do that. They belong to us.”
She stopped in front of Major Harte and stared at him. The brief moment of sympathy she’d had for him vanished, and her face burned with anger. Indeed, her entire body felt as if fire consumed her. She grabbed the document from him, but her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t read the paper in front of her.
“Indeed, I can, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said, his voice no longer soft, but commanding and strong. “I have my orders.” The expression in his eyes hadn’t changed, though. They were still apologetic.
She knew the army, on both sides, frequently took homes and other possessions, but it didn’t assuage her anger one bit. “Why my steamers? And my home?”
Literary Love Page 283
