Valentine's Night

by Penny Jordan

  Firmly suppressing the unwanted eroticism of his thoughts, he closed his eyes. Less than ten minutes later, he opened them again quickly. The sensation of the soft, warm body burrowing against his own so closely mirrored his own brief fantasy that at first he wasn't sure if he was merely imagining it… but, no, he acknowledged, grinning to himself, this was definitely real!

  Obligingly he turned round to face Sorrel, and saw that she was deeply asleep. He supposed it was only natural that she should seek the warmth she had just left, and the dip in the centre of the bed had caused her to roll naturally against him.

  He contemplated waking her up and pointing out to her that her behaviour was hardly in the spirit of her earlier remarks, and then acknowledged that to do so would be unnecessarily cruel. And, besides, it was very definitely a pleasure having her warmth cuddled up against him. He reached out to slip his arm around her and make himself more comfortable, and his fingers brushed against the silky fabric of her bra. He wondered what she normally wore in bed. A starched cotton nightdress with lots of Victorian lace and a high neck, perhaps; but certainly not her bra and panties. Deftly he reached for the catch of her bra and eased it away from her, telling himself that it couldn't be very comfortable for her wearing such a constricting garment while she slept, ignoring the fact that her satin bra was little more than a delicate wisp of fabric and that she herself seemed supremely unaware of any such constriction. He wondered what she would say if she woke up now and found herself virtually in his arms. She would be furious, of course. He could almost see her eyes darkening with temper now—and once he told her that she had been the one to cuddle up to him . . . She wouldn't believe him, of course, not at first, and he would perhaps tease her a little, asking what her so-proper fiancé would think of such behaviour.

  Suddenly he tensed. Of course! Now, why hadn't he thought of that before? She deserved better than her cold fish of a fiancé. She deserved to have a man who really appreciated her, who would cherish and love her. He had learned early from his elder sisters that even the most independent of women enjoyed being cosseted at times. And why not? Didn't all human beings enjoy a little bit of emotional spoiling when it came from someone they loved, and wasn't given in a patronising way, but out of loving and caring?

  Against his chest, Sorrel sighed, her breath warm and sweet. Her head rested in the curve of his shoulder and he was scrupulously keeping their bodies from touching, even though every now and again Sorrel gave a restless sigh and pouted in her sleep, trying to cuddle up closer to him—almost as though in some instinctive way she sensed his presence and wanted the physical contact with him. No woman who was genuinely, in love with someone else would sleep so trustingly and innocently in his arms.

  His body started to relax as tiredness caught up with him. Some time during the night, Sorrel had her way and their bodies meshed gently together, Val obligingly and instinctively moving his legs to make room for hers, his muscular thigh resting across her, imprisoning her within their sleeping embrace.

  Sorrel woke up first, stretching languorously, blissfully warm and relaxed, and then abruptly she tensed, suddenly aware of the alien weight lying across her legs. She opened her eyes, blinking as she saw the warm brown flesh only centimetres from her face. An awful lot of unpleasant facts hit her at the same time.

  Such as the fact that the delicious warmth bathing the front of her body came from the warm male flesh in such intimate contact with her own.

  And the fact that the rhythmic rise and fall of that warm male chest was making her acutely aware of her bare breasts and the rather disturbing sensation caused by the unfamiliar roughness of a man's chest hair against her tender skin. And the fact that she was apparently imprisoned against that same male body by the solid muscled weight of the thigh thrown across her legs and the arm encircling her.

  She moved experimentally. The light from the window held the cold, clear brightness of the snow outside, the fire had died down to a mere glow, and she wanted to escape before Val woke up and discovered how intimately they were intwined.

  She moved again, wriggling impatiently. It was like trying to escape from a trap of solid rock. If she could just shift his leg…

  She burrowed down under the bedclothes and put her hands on his thigh. Beneath her palms, the sensation of soft hair against firm, silky, skin-covered muscle was extraordinarily daunting. Her hands trembled crazily, as though imbued with a life of their own; a life which wantonly whispered to them to explore the solid sinew-roped limb beneath them, her fingertips almost stroking against his thigh instead of removing it.

  'Mmm… nice…'

  The soft purring words, the way his thigh flexed and then relaxed, as though mutely inciting her to caress it, almost made Sorrel jump out of her skin.

  'You're… you're awake!' She wished she didn't sound so guilty, as though she had been doing something wrong.

  She heard him laugh, a soft, satisfied sound that sent shivers trembling through her.

  'I'd have to be made of stone to sleep through that… and to think I thought you didn't care,' Val murmured, deliberately teasing her.

  Val had been awake for the last half-hour, too comfortable to move, drowsily wondering what she would do when she woke up and discovered that she had slept in his arms. Her attempts to stealthily put some distance between them had made him smile.

  If he was any gentleman, he had told himself sternly, he would let her do it and tactfully pretend he knew nothing. But he wasn't a gentleman. Besides, it was too important to the plan he had formed before going to sleep. He had enjoyed sleeping so close to her. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually spent the whole night with a woman… and certainly never with one who was so innocently voluptuous. Too voluptuous and too innocent, he warned himself, remembering how he had felt when he'd first woken up and discovered that her naked breasts were nestled enticingly against his chest, her dark pink nipples buried in the crisp dark hair that grew there.

  Instantly Sorrel snatched her hand away, her face burning. Surely he didn't think she had actually been trying to… to…

  'If you want to make love to me, there's no need to wait until I'm asleep,' he tormented her, and Sorrel, not hearing the humour in his voice, fell for the bait, scrambling away from him.

  'I do not want to make love to you. How dare you say such a thing?' she demanded, her face very pink.

  The dark eyebrows quirked slightly, the bright light reflected off the snow showing the line of dark stubble on his chin.

  'Seems to me that when a woman cuddles up to a man the way you did to me last night, and then starts stroking his…'

  'I did nothing of the kind!' Sorrel protested furiously, sitting up in the bed and remembering too late that she was virtually naked.

  The cold air in the bedroom raised a rash of goose-bumps on her skin and made her breasts tauten and lift, her nipples erect. She gave an inarticulate cry of consternation and slid hurriedly down under the sheet. The combined shock of the cold and her embarrassment had cleared her befuddled brain, and from the protection of the bedclothes she snapped bitterly, 'And I suppose you're going to tell me that I undressed myself as well, are you, without even knowing I was doing it?'

  'It was the wine,' Val told her shamelessly, sitting up himself and apparently uncaring of the cold. Unlike hers, his flesh did not react to it. He had the most marvellous tan, Sorrel reflected enviously. His chest was deep and broad, his body musky with its own special scent. The sheet slipped to his waist, revealing the supple strength of his spine. Hastily she dragged her gaze away from him. Her head had started to pound, proof if she wanted it that she had had far too much to drink.

  'You begged me to do it,' Val told her virtuously.

  'Begged you to do what?' she demanded falteringly.

  'Why, undress you, of course,' Val fibbed cheerfully. 'You said you didn't like sleeping in your clothes… and, being the gentleman that I am…'

  He saw the militant sparkle in her eyes and ve
iled his own to hide his amusement. He was enjoying this game; and she deserved a little torment. After all, he had suffered enough of it himself, lying awake this morning, all too conscious of her delicious nakedness pressed up against him… all too aware that every breath she took was bringing those soft breasts of hers into closer contact with his body. And when she'd touched his thigh… He lifted his lids, and Sorrel, who had half expected to see mockery in his eyes, was astounded by the sudden sexual fierceness of the look he gave her. She literally shrank back from it, and demanded shrilly and dangerously, 'And my br—my underwear? I suppose you're going to tell me I asked you to remove that as well, are you?'

  'You said it was digging into you,' Val assured her solemnly, and then added mischievously, 'Are you sure you and this fiancé of yours aren't lovers?'

  A dark tide of colour burned up under Sorrel's skin: a mixture of fury, outrage and a very special female kind of embarrassment that sprang from the fact that she knew very well that she wasn't finding the memory of her physical contact with him anything like as abhorrent as she ought.

  She knew that she ought to ignore him, that he was deliberately baiting her. She didn't have three brothers for nothing, after all, but even so she wasn't proof against her suddenly all too fevered imagination.

  'Why?' she questioned him uneasily.

  He saw the confusion and guilt in her eyes, and pounced on it.

  'Well,' he said seriously, 'when you were begging me to take off your bra…' he bent his head and put his mouth to her ear, his fingers brushing aside the thick tendrils of her hair '… you whispered to me that you wanted to lie naked against me,' he told her outrageously. 'You said you wanted…'

  'You're lying!' Sorrel gasped, pulling away from him, her face suddenly piteously white. She couldn't look at him, her whole body was gripped by tension. Surely she couldn't have done or said anything like that? Surely he was just teasing her, deliberately tormenting her? She could see that he found the whole situation amusing, while she…

  'Oh, lord,' she moaned suddenly, her eyes burning. 'Andrew—'

  Val. who had been on the point of relenting and admitting that he was tormenting her, changed his mind. It was for her own good, he assured himself virtuously, as he told her with as assuringly grave a manner as he could muster. 'Don't worry, I won't betray you. He need never know. How long is it exactly before you're getting married, by the way?' he asked her guilelessly.

  Sorrel stared at him and started to tremble. 'What… what do you mean?' she asked him in a failing voice.

  'Oh, nothing. Just that if you're going to make a habit of trying to seduce other men, it might be as well if…'

  Trying to seduce, he had said. Relief coursed through her. For one appalling moment she had thought he was actually trying to imply that she… that they… But of course not. No matter how much elderberry wine she had drunk, she would surely have remembered something like that?

  'I'd like to get dressed,' she told him stiffly.

  'Go ahead. I folded your clothes and put them over there. All apart from your bra, that is,' he added musingly. 'Because we were already in bed when you begged me to take it off. Hang on a minute.' She saw his body move, and to her horror he produced her underwear from somewhere inside the bed, handing it to her with a smile that made her grit her teeth and curl her fingers into her palms. It was either that or strangle him. How dared he lie there and give her that dazzling smile, so completely the conquering, swaggering male? Lord, she must have been mad to let him share the bed with her. She ought to have locked and bolted the door the moment she saw him… with him on the outside. Never mind if he had frozen to death!

  'See,' he told her softly. 'I've even warmed it for you.'

  She couldn't help it; she blushed, openly and vividly, and she blushed again when she heard him laugh.

  Furious both with him and herself, she said fiercely, 'If you would just turn your back.'

  'No need,' he assured her. 'After all, there's no need for us to be shy with one another, is there? Not after we've spent the night all wrapped up in each other's arms.'

  'I did not,' Sorrel swallowed and said hoarsely, 'That was a mistake… an accident. It…'

  She gasped as he suddenly pushed back the blankets and got out of bed, her rounded eyes filling with relief when she saw that he was wearing briefs.

  'Disappointed?' he teased her wickedly, grinning when she drew back with angry disdain. 'You stay there. I'll go down and make us both a hot drink. Or would you prefer me to stay?' he asked suggestively.

  Sorrel was horrified. 'No. No!'

  Oh, please let her wake up and find that this was all some kind of horrible nightmare.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  « ^ »

  'Not still sulking, are you?' Val enquired. It was almost eleven in the morning. It hadn't taken more than a brief investigation of the conditions outside for both of them to acknowledge that they were snowbound, with no way of leaving the cottage until the snow thawed. Having prowled uneasily round the kitchen most of the morning, clattering pans and generally giving vent to her inner agitation, Sorrel was now sitting in front of the range, staring bitterly into space, wondering how on earth she had ever got herself into such a mess.

  To make matters worse, she had the devil's own hangover—the sort that could probably only be cleared by either a hearty bout of tears or a good long walk, and it seemed unlikely that she was going to be able to indulge in either.

  'Why?' she demanded trenchantly. 'Because you refused to seduce me?'

  She was over her early-morning embarrassment and shock now. Reality had asserted itself and she was furious with herself for ever having been stupid enough to let him play on her fears so effortlessly. So she had begged him to undress her, had she? She ground her teeth impotently. Did he think she was a complete fool?

  Oh, she could see what it was all about. Doubtless he found it all too amusing that she and Andrew had never been lovers—and she was pretty sure he was having a fine time tormenting her and making fun of her. It was obviously one way of alleviating the boredom of being cooped up with a twenty-four-year-old spinster who knew so little about men and sex that she could be fooled into thinking he had actually been her lover. Well, almost fooled into thinking it.

  'The game's over, Cousin Val,' she told him grittily.

  'If you say so,' he agreed obligingly.

  'So you admit that it was a game,' Sorrel pounced, 'and that I didn't, that I didn't beg… ask you to take my clothes off?' Her face was red by the time she had finished, but she was determined to stand her ground.

  'Can't you remember?' Val asked her softly.

  Damn him, he had caught her out again, and the infuriating thing was that she couldn't remember—not a damn thing apart from a delicious feeling of warmth and blissful security.

  'I may be a raw colonial, but in my part of the world we never discuss what a lady—er—may or may not have said in an intimate situation.'

  There he went again, deliberately making fun of her. Any intimacy between them had been caused by an accidental physical proximity and nothing else.

  'Will you tell your fiancé—Andrew—about sleeping with me?' he asked her casually.

  Sorrel looked at him, her skin growing uncomfortably warm.

  'If the subject comes up,' she told him uneasily, trying to imagine herself saying casually to Andrew during one of their dates, Oh, and by the way, you remember when I was up at the old farm with Val? Well, we slept together. Nothing serious—he just took off virtually all my clothes and held me in his arms, threw his thigh across me and…

  'If it comes up?' The dark eyebrows rose in that now familiar quirk. 'You mean, it may not?' Hell, if my woman had spent three days alone with another man, I'd damn well want her to account for every single second of her time.'

  'Andrew and I trust one another,' Sorrel told him loftily. 'He knows that I wouldn't… that…'

  'Perhaps he believes that because he doesn't want to make love to you
, no other man does either,' Val suggested quietly.

  It was too much. Too close to home for comfort, too cutting and cruel after his earlier remarks to her about her pleas to him to undress her. She wondered uneasily if she was wrong, after all, and if she had… But no, surely not? She started to panic, wishing she could remember, wishing she hadn't drunk so much wine, wishing she had never allowed herself to be persuaded to come up here. Wishing that Valentine Llewellyn had in fact been Valerie.

  Her body burned uncomfortably as she wondered if perhaps she did have much stronger sexual urges than she had always believed, if perhaps those urges had betrayed her into… Her throat had gone very dry. She swallowed hard, and Val, taking pity on her, said calmly, 'You said something about some family diaries. Do you think I could have a look at them?'

  Sorrel seized on the excuse to escape from him. The kitchen had suddenly become unbearably claustrophobic. If they had to stay here another night, and it looked very much as though they might, then there was no way she was going to… Her mind shied away from the thought.

  She would sleep downstairs on one of the chairs—anything, anything rather than risk sharing that bed with him again.

  She dallied over getting the diaries, but the cold in the rest of the house drove her back to the kitchen.

  Stiltedly at first, and then more easily, she explained to him the family tradition. She had been fascinated by the diaries ever since she had first been allowed to read them. It was several years since she had last looked at them, and as she handed the first one to Val she was surprised to see how reverently and gently he touched it. He would touch and hold a woman with that same reverent care, that same gentleness that came only from strength, that same…

  She had to swallow again, trying not to remember how impatient Andrew had always been over what he termed her sentimentality about the diaries. He claimed that they should be sold, that they were of great value. He couldn't understand why the family insisted on keeping them. She had never told him that she was maintaining the family tradition and keeping one herself, and it startled her to hear Val saying quietly, 'When did you first start writing in yours?'