The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  It was the natural thing to do. She moved closer. And she kissed him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucien had succumbed to sleep only after promising himself that he would keep one foot on the floor. His reasoning was simple, if possibly self-deceptive. He told himself that if he didn’t actually lie down beside Anne, he’d remain in control.

  Keeping his boot sole pressed to the wood planks of the cabin floor represented Lucien’s last holdout against temptation, but it was a damned uncomfortable position. He’d had to twist his torso at an unnatural angle to lay his head on the pillow beside Anne while at the same time keeping that blasted foot on the floor. He awoke to a distinctly unpleasant sensation in his lower back. Pain. And something else …

  Anne’s lips shyly, tentatively touching his. He groaned and pulled her against his chest, burying his face in her fragrant neck. Her breasts were firm and round beneath him. He could feel the nipples—as hard as pebbles—even through the material of her borrowed jacket. Her arms convulsed around his back, pulling him closer.

  Now there was no question about it; the foot-on-the-floor exercise had definitely been self-deceptive, and a dead failure. His control had slipped through his fingers like a length of cool, sleek silk—trembling fingers that reached reflexively for Anne’s braided hair. He wanted the pins out. He wanted them out now, damn it. At this point, only the toe of his boot maintained contact with the floor, an apt metaphor for the amount of control he had left. Next to nothing.

  “Shall I help you?”

  Lucien’s hands stilled. Anne’s shy question recalled his derelict conscience. She was too innocent and too willing. She had no idea what she was getting into, and he had no right to touch her. His hands dropped to her shoulders. He waited for his breath to slow, his leaping pulse to settle into a more natural rhythm.

  “Please don’t stop,” came Anne’s sweet plea, so close he felt her breath caress his ear. “I want you to kiss me. Please kiss me, Renard, just as you did last night.”

  Lucien groaned and sat up, turning his back to her. The foot was firmly in place again, from heel to toe, flat on the floor. “God, Anne, don’t tempt me.”

  The bed creaked as she pushed up on the pillows. Her palms rested on his back, warm and soft. “Why not? Don’t you want to kiss me again?”

  “Of course I want to, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is different. This time things could get … carried away.” Her hands began moving, making little circles of pressure on the tight muscles of his back. It felt wonderful.

  “What if I told you I wanted things to get carried away?”

  “Then I’d say you’re a fool.” His tone was purposely derisive. “Why can’t you realize how dangerous it is to be connected with me in any way? Especially like this.”

  He felt her hands lift away from his back. He was glad. At least one part of him was glad—his conscience. The rest of him felt bereft. He yearned for her as he’d never yearned for another woman. So many times he’d imagined her beautiful hair rippling over the pillow like a river of gold, her arms outstretched, welcoming him, beckoning him to settle into her warm softness. Tonight it could be that way.

  Lucien’s jaw tightened. Yes, maybe it could be that way, but with one big difference. He’d never imagined making love to Anne as Renard the outlaw, and in the dark. He wouldn’t be able to really see her, to worship her with his eyes as well as his hands.

  Lucien rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. There was no question that he couldn’t allow her to see him. But how could he accept Anne’s love dressed like some damned thief, mask and all? Maybe it was appropriate, though … given the circumstances. Wouldn’t he be stealing something that didn’t belong to him, could never belong to him as long as he pursued his present life?

  Without turning around, he asked her, “How do you feel, Anne?”

  “I feel wonderful.” Her tone was rich, seductive, very sure.

  “Good. Then you’re well enough to ride?” His own voice had none of her confidence. He seemed rooted to the spot; afraid to turn and look at her, but loath to stand up and begin the grueling process of separation. The long ride home with her fitted between his thighs, the heat of her, the intoxicating, womanly scent of her would be an exquisite torture. And, in the end, he’d still have to send her into the house and up to bed alone. Without him. Lucien’s heart felt as though it had been squeezed dry.

  There was a soft, tinny sound behind him. Plink, plink. Pins. Anne was loosening her hair.

  Slowly Lucien turned. He had no choice. He had to see.

  There was just enough light from the candle for Lucien to see far too much for his tenuous self-control. She’d lain back against the pillows, her hair fanning out on all sides, muted candle-glow gilding the multitude of waves. Stars of reflected light shone in her eyes, too. Her arms were raised, beckoning him, just as in his dreams.

  “Anne, I can’t …”

  “You can.” She lifted one hand and tugged playfully on his shirtfront. She smiled, her lower lip quivering slightly. She was adorable. She was half-woman, half-child. “You must, cher. I love you.”

  Lucien cursed himself even as he gave up the hard-fought battle against his own desire. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. She was offering him heaven, and he couldn’t refuse it.

  Lucien bore Anne down into the cool, plump softness of the pillows. He caught and plundered her willing mouth. She kissed him back with trembling eagerness. Her slender frame arched against him, and her arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Sweet Anne,” he murmured, his lips trailing down her throat. “Sweet Anne, what have you done to me?”

  She sighed softly, her hands sliding up the taut muscles of his back to the nape of his neck. “I’ve loved you. Will you love me back, Renard?”

  Who could resist such a plea, such an invitation to paradise? But by giving in to what they both wanted, was he condemning her to a kind of hell?

  He pushed up on the heels of his hands and looked down at her. The candle was sputtering, its last flicker of light about to extinguish. Anne’s face was obscured by shadows. He could just see the pale shining of her eyes; the delicate, classic features of her face; the curve of her cheek. Her lips were parted, her quick, sweet breath stirring the air between them. With a shaky hand, he tenderly brushed away a tendril of hair that had caught against her lower lip. “I can’t promise you anything, Anne. I don’t know yet what will happen when I—”

  She lifted her hand and laid her fingers lightly against his mouth. “I don’t want promises, cher. I just want tonight.”

  He claimed her mouth again, possessive, passionate. He would give her exactly what she wanted, what they both wanted. Tonight he would love her with the fervor of weeks of denial. He’d make sure she would never forget and never regret the next few hours together. He would make her his for all eternity.

  His hand reached up and covered her breast, his thumb and forefinger catching the tight nipple and rolling it gently through the muslin of her chemise. She gasped, and an answering thrill coursed through him.

  Again he pulled back, straining to see her. But even as he did, the candle went out completely. Dark. Everything was dark, except for the frail glow of moonlight that sifted through the threadbare curtains at the windows. The dark was a curse and a blessing—a curse because he couldn’t see her, but a blessing because she couldn’t see him. Did he dare take off his mask?

  “Renard?” Her hand reached up to touch his face, the delicate fingers trailing an inquisitive path down the tightly fitted mask. There was a soft intake of breath as her fingers came to the edge, where flesh touched flesh. The smooth nail of her forefinger lightly grazed the stubble along the sharp angle of his jaw, then rested on his lips. He could feel her pulse in the pads of her fingers. Her heart was tripping a light, frenzied beat, like the capering dance of his own heart.

  He swallowed, tamping down his escalating n
eed, trying to ignore the heaviness in his loins. He wanted to go slow with Anne, to pleasure her.

  “I was just wondering how best to remove your trousers, cher.” His voice was a raspy whisper, but with an edge of excitement, like a thirsty man approaching a cold, fresh-flowing stream. “It seems you’ve got them pinned to your chemise.”

  Her soft laugh floated in the air. “Yes. Sorry to inconvenience you, my love, but I was afraid they’d fall off.”

  He smiled, her fingers still resting lightly on his lips. She traced his smile, dipping with slow luxuriance into all the curves. Then she took one of his hands and lifted it to her own lips, where there was an answering smile.

  “You have a beautiful mouth, Renard,” said Anne. After a slight hesitation, she added, “I’d like to touch the rest of your face. Would you … take off your mask?”

  Lucien stiffened. He wished nothing more than to take off his mask, along with the rest of his clothes. “I don’t know, Anne.”

  “It’s too dark to see you. If you really don’t want me to know who you are—”

  “I don’t,” he interjected quickly. “It would be too dangerous.”

  She sighed. “Are you afraid I might expose you?” She sounded hurt.

  “No, of course not. It’s for your own protection. It’s best you don’t know who I am.”

  There was another pause. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” he answered, telling himself it was the truth. She didn’t really know him. She didn’t know Lucien Delacroix. She only knew the Dandy, his cursed masquerade.

  “I understand if you don’t want to take off your mask, but—”

  “But what, cher?” His hands slid slowly along her collarbone and over the cap of each shoulder.

  “Will you … will you take off the scarf you’ve got tied around your head? I want so much to feel your hair.”

  Lucien debated. The room was in almost total darkness. And hair was hair, wasn’t it? Certainly his wouldn’t feel much different than any other man’s. She’d never recognize him by his hair. “Yes, cher, I’ll take off my scarf if you’ll do me an immense favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “Will you help me undo those damned pins holding up your trousers?”

  “I’ll help you, with that and with anything you ask.” He could hear the smile in her voice and pictured it on her wonderfully sensuous mouth.

  Lucien propped himself on one locked arm, then reached around to untie the tight knot at the back of his head that held his scarf in place. He threw the scarf on the floor and ran his fingers through his slightly damp hair. It felt good to let his scalp breathe, though freeing his hair to do as it pleased—in this humidity and without the assistance of a comb—would make it an unruly tumble of curls. Dandy Delacroix always kept his crop neatly brushed, the springy waves tamed. Surely she’d not make a connection between the two of them.

  Together they undid the pins holding the trousers to her chemise. The room was silent as they single-mindedly worked to remove another barrier to their mutual pleasure. Silence, except for the quick fan of their breath mingling in the air between them.

  Mindful again of slowing down the delicious process of seduction, Lucien turned his concentration to the generous swell of her breasts before removing her trousers. He held one breast in his hand, then bent his head and, through the thin material of the chemise, took her nipple in his mouth. He twirled his tongue around the hard bud, pulling and pushing gently with the ridge of his teeth.

  He heard the hiss of Anne’s breath, felt the tug of her fingers in his hair. It hadn’t taken her long to find a home there, among all those curls. She moaned with unmistakable pleasure, which increased his own enjoyment tenfold. She arched against him, her legs moving restlessly. Lucien responded by slipping a leg between her two, lifting his knee to nudge them apart. Then he eased himself atop her till they were connected intimately from head to toe, his erection against the rise of her mons.

  “There are too many clothes between us, Anne.”

  “Y-yes. Too many.”

  “Are you ready, then?”

  “To …?”

  He chuckled. “To take them off, of course.” He felt a little nervous, a little green. He assumed she was a virgin since she was well born and generally well protected. It had been a long time since he’d had to consider the complexities of making love to a virgin. It was humbling, too, if he was, as he hoped, the first man for her. He didn’t want her to be frightened, or to feel rushed. He waited.

  She reached up and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. The way her fingers brushed against his bare skin underneath made his breath catch. Soon his shirt was open, then she was tugging on it, pulling the tail out of his trousers. He smiled through the exquisite agony, glad she wasn’t shy.

  He shrugged out of his shirt and sent it flying through the air to find a resting place somewhere on the floor with the scarf. As he braced above her on the bed, her hands moved without hesitation to his chest. The feel of her palms pressing against his chest, moving slowly down to where the thin line of hair disappeared into the band of his trousers, nearly sent his control completely out the window. God, how would it feel to lie with her completely naked?

  The thought inspired him to ease gently away from Anne’s questing hands and off the bed. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, then he sat in a chair and struggled out of his boots. They were damned difficult to remove without a bootjack or a manservant to help, and he wasn’t feeling particularly patient. Then, without ceremony, off came the trousers, too. He thought, rather sheepishly, that maybe it was a good thing Anne couldn’t see how rigid he was. It might scare the living daylights out of her.

  While Renard took off his clothes, Anne wasted no time. Her head felt fine—all of her felt fine—and she had no intention of lying about like a helpless female. She sat up in bed and pulled off her jacket, dropping it on the floor by the bed. Then she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her trousers and pushed, scooting out of them, inch by inch. The trousers slid over the bedcovers and onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

  She pulled off her stockings and tucked them under the pillows. Renard had apparently taken her boots off when she was unconscious. Dressed as she was only in her chemise, she felt the air hit her exposed skin like a dip in the cool sea. She debated whether to take the chemise off, decided that Renard might think her too forward, then lay back on the pillows and waited.

  The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down on the edge of the bed. His shadow loomed above her in the dark. She sensed his hesitation, his regret. “What is it, Renard?”

  He sighed. “I wish we could do this with all the candles blazing. I want to look at you, Anne.”

  She thought of asking him to trust her. To light all the candles. To reveal himself to her, figuratively and literally. But she didn’t. He wasn’t ready. So she said instead, “It doesn’t matter. We can see each other with our hands and our lips and … our hearts.” She propped on one elbow and reached out to him with her free hand. And he came.

  They sank down together into the pillows. The impact of bare flesh against bare flesh—legs tangled, hearts beating wildly—made Anne weak with desire. He was a patchwork of textures, rough here, smooth there—satin and sandpaper. He bent his head and kissed her deeply, their tongues twining and teasing, his hands in her hair.

  At this most intimate moment, Anne again thought of Delacroix. A fleeting memory of his kisses intruded. She remembered the similar way they incited her passion, but she thrust the thought aside. Delacroix had no place in bed with her and Renard.

  He rolled her to one side, putting enough distance between them to caress her. He smoothed his hand along the swell of her hip, down into the valley of her slender waist, then up where the narrow sleeve of her chemise rode the delicate cap of her shoulder. He hooked his thumb under the fragile material and tugged, gently slipping the chemise down her arm. He eased her onto her back and did the same to her other shoulder,
moving the chemise down till the wide neck of the garment bared her breasts.

  He bent and trailed his lips along her collarbone, lingering at the base of her throat, where her pulse fluttered like a frightened bird. But she wasn’t frightened. She was mad with wanting him, with needing him to hold her closer and closer. The weight of his manhood pressed against her stomach, suffusing her womb with honeyed heat. There was a wetness between her legs, a tremor in the muscles of her thighs.

  Then he moved lower still and took the tip of her breast in his mouth, the nipple tender and engorged. He suckled there, the titillating play of tongue and teeth making her stomach contract. He moved to the other breast and did the same. She buried her hands in his hair, her fingers clutching in the lush curls.

  Her head fell back, her body wallowing in the pleasure of it all. She heard herself moan, and wondered at the power of this joining of man and woman. Images of the slaves at Congo Square, their writhing, rhythmic mating dance, floated through her consciousness. She could feel the beat of the drums in her blood.

  Anne knew she was ready. She regretted nothing. Whoever Renard really was, she loved him. Though she had freely shared her own feelings, he had said nothing of love. He desired her, and for now that would have to be enough.

  Suddenly he surprised her by rolling onto his back and pulling her atop him. She splayed her hands on his chest, half-reclining, his erection still pressed against her stomach, her legs straddling one of his powerful thighs. As he did—possibly more than he did—she wished for a room full of blazing candles. She could tell, just by touch, that he was beautiful.

  He seemed to be waiting. His long fingers were curled around her upper arms, unmoving except for the slight up and down motion of his thumb along her sensitized skin. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly anxious. Everything had seemed to be going along wonderfully. She’d loved every minute of it, so far. She knew they weren’t finished. They couldn’t be finished. Her nerves still sang like telegraph wires. Her body was heavy and aching. But perhaps, just at this point, she was expected to do something.