With a small sound of distress, she said, “Rather because I want—I need so much to be close to something or someone, and…and you—”
“And I forced my way into your life. Since you have no choice, you will accept the role of dutiful wife and trust there may be some small compensation in allowing me near you.”
She met his gaze, her own shadowed yet valiant. “Not at all. I should not say so, perhaps, but I have often thought that you remind me of Satan. When you are with me, I—I feel for you some of the same wonder, know the same joy that you might need my care or my affection. Are you offended?”
“God, no,” he said in low fervor as he moved to her with steady strides and caught her hands. Taking the pins she held, he tossed them to the washstand then drew her carefully into his arms. “I am honored beyond reckoning to be placed in his company in your mind.”
She rested her forehead against his collar bone while tears rose in her eyes. “I did love him,” she said in soft, unsteady tones. “And he cared about me, really he did. I taught him to trust me, to accept my touch. With me, he always sheathed his claws and was as gentle as a kitten. He was my friend and my playmate. I talked to him and laughed with him, told him all my secrets. And I will miss him so much. I think…I think he is gone, really gone. And I don’t know what I am going to do.”
“Take me instead,” Lucien said, his voice a rough murmur in his throat. “If you need something uncivilized to tame, tame me. If you need a devil to turn into an angel, I am here. If you need something, or someone, not quite whole to make well again, use me. If you need someone to care for and share your secrets, to keep you from the dangers of the dark and the future, then please—please let it be me.”
Somewhere deep inside her, a knot of lonely anguish began slowly to dissolve. It pushed the tears over her lashes so they seeped into his shirt front to wet it. Over the aching tightness in her throat, she said, “You won’t mind?”
“I will be honored,” he said as he smoothed the cloud of her hair that tumbled down her back in loose ringlets and curls. “But I should perhaps warn you that I may not always be content as your pet.”
“No,” she said, brushing her fingers over the firm muscle above his heart in a small, convulsive gesture. “Still, if you will allow me to love you, at least a little, then perhaps—”
“If you will give me even a miniscule portion of the love you gave to your panther,” he said unsteadily, “then you will have all my devotion for all my life long. And one day, when I am old and gray and near to leaving this life, I hope you will miss me even a little for all the reasons you miss your Satan, and weep for me as you soothe me on my way to death. For you are my wilding mate and my only love, and I am lost without you.”
It was what she needed, all that was required. She drew back to meet his gaze for one long, heart-stopping moment. Then her attention drifted to the generous and resolute contours of his mouth. Her lips parted on a soft breath.
He needed no other invitation. Bending his head, he took possession of her mouth, invading in a full, liquid sweep. She slid her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe to receive him. The sudden surge of blood in her veins made her giddy. At the same time her heart was so full she swallowed salt tears of both old grief and new joy. Then the sweet, perilous rise of desire wiped away all thought, all doubt, leaving only the piercing certainty of bodies attuned and vibrant with recognition.
They were two parts of a whole, wandering mated souls matched at last. If he was wild, then so was she, for they melded together in a fury of need that pressed them closer and closer against each other.
Still they could not be close enough, could not touch as completely as necessary. Stepping to the bed, they brushed aside the mosquito netting and sank down on the mattress. He turned her so her back was to him, sweeping her hair forward over her shoulder as he worked at the row of tiny buttons on her gown with swift competence and only a few muttered imprecations. Pushing his hands inside her open bodice, he brushed his lips across the top of one shoulder while he gently cupped her breasts.
She drew a soft, hissing breath and arched back against him as he took her nipples in his fingers to knead them as carefully as tender, juicy berries. As she tangled the fingers of one hand in the waves of his head, he leaned over her, turning her to take her lips once more.
Clothes, there were endless layers of clothes. Slippers and boots, close-fitting pants that had to be peeled away. Gowns that slid and sagged in heavy folds. Stockings and hose, petticoats and stiff hoops, cravats and under-drawers: each item required the learning of new skills, at least for Anne-Marie; each called forth a salute of kisses upon the skin newly bared. Like drifts of refuse on a beach, the discarded garments collected around the bed.
Lucien sprang up then and closed the jalousies, extinguished the lamp. Returning, naked and gilded by moonlight, he lowered the mosquito netting around the mattress then joined her inside it. With their eyes like dark pools of promise and yearning, they hovered in silent questioning. Seeing their rich, mutual welcome, they came together again, heart to heart, mouth to mouth, mind to mind.
Still, they did not hurry, but moved at their own sweet pace to learn the texture of skin and the flavor of it, explore scents and sounds and sensitivities. Playful and cavorting, or grasping in hard, internal convulsions of feeling, they sought for true intimacy with hands and tongues, lips and souls. And discovered it in soft, sweet whispers and pleas; in quick, flicking licks and slow absorbing assaults that plumbed resistance and endurance, readiness and mercy.
When they came together, the small physical barrier to penetration gave way with warm, liquid ease, aided by his careful penetration, her infinite trust. Locked in tight conjunction, they tried each other, learned each other. Then moving together, rising, falling, seeking and finding a mutual rhythm, they sought the final glory.
And discovered it. Discovered, too, the release from their aloneness, from their grief, their worry and pain. For in loving was the benediction and reward for choosing life. Even if it was not everlasting, it was still, finally, enough.
They were caught close in each other’s arms as the steamboat slipped its moorings with the dawn. Rocked by the movement, soothed by the steady heart-like beat of the steam engine, they slept on while everything they had known slipped away behind them.
It was a slow passage, but they came at last to Lucien’s house set among ancient oaks on the vast and spreading lands below New Orleans. They settled in, taking their time, growing used to each other by wondrous degrees. Summer passed into autumn and the nights grew cooler. Still, it was a night of pleasant warmth when Anne-Marie woke to see her husband standing in nude splendor at the French doors that opened out onto the upper gallery from their bedroom. He appeared transfixed as he stared out over the lawn.
“What is it?” she asked, smothering a yawn.
He turned his head but did not answer. Touching his fingers to his lips, he made a quick motion for her to join him.
She slid from between the sheets at once, as naked as he as she glided to his side and curled an arm about his waist. She rubbed his shoulder with her cheek an instant before turning to follow the direction of his gaze. For a moment, she saw nothing unusual. Then she caught her breath.
There under the trees that dotted the lawn, in the strong, copper-tinted light of a harvest moon, dark, dangerous shapes glided in and out of the hard-edged shadows. There were two—no, three. Sleek, sinuous, with coats shining like cut-pile velvet, it was a family of panthers: male, female, and a single kit.
“Oh,” she said softly, while gladness rose in her heart, filling it to send tears tracking down her face.
It was Satan. It had to be. Didn’t it?
Below her, the largest of the great cats stalked into the open area and stopped in the full, flooding path of the moon. Powerful, beautiful in his grace, he stood twitching his tail while he lifted his head and stared straight up at the window where they stood.
“He fou
nd you,” Lucien said quietly as he turned his head to look down at her.
“You said he would,” she answered, and met his gaze a long moment before turning once more, drawn to where the panther that had once been her pet stood like a sleek ebony statue.
He was safe. He was whole. Now he could live in peace on these wide lands without being hunted. He could come and go as he willed, if he willed. He and his family.
Now his mate had seen them there at the window. She was nervous. Gathering her kit, she faded into the shadows and was lost almost immediately in the deep black of the woodland beyond. At its edge, she called, a plaintive demand.
Satan turned his head to look, but swung back toward the window once more. If she herself called, Anne-Marie thought, he might come, might stay, might come close to be petted and loved, even as wild as he had become.
She did not move. Satan had his mate and his territory; she was near if she was needed. But he was no longer dependent on her as he had once been, and in truth she no longer looked to him as a symbol of her wilding urges or for loving affection.
One moment the panther was still there, the next he was gone. The lawn lay empty again under the brazen and benevolent light of the moon.
Anne-Marie put her head on Lucien’s chest and closed her arms around him, holding tight. He brushed a kiss across her hair.
“Sleepy?” he said.
“No.” The answer was definite.
“Shall I ring for warm milk with brandy? It might do the trick.”
“I don’t think so.”
He glanced down at her with a faint, tantalizing smile. “What then?”
“Come back to bed,” she said, nuzzling the hollow below his collar bone.
He turned more fully against her so she could feel his arousal against the smooth skin of her belly. “That sounds like a she-panther’s call to me.”
“Exactly,” she said, and nipped his skin, then soothed it with her tongue. “Are you going to answer?”
His laugh rumbled, vibrating in his chest. Leaning, he slid an arm under her knees to lift and carry her back to the bed, back into the wild yet gentle darkness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jennifer Blake has been called a “pioneer of the romance genre,” an “icon of the romance industry,” and a “grande dame of romance.” A New York Times and international best-selling author since 1977, she is a charter member of Romance Writers of America, member of the RWA and Affaire de Coeur Halls of Fame, and recipient of the RWA Lifetime Achievement Rita. She holds numerous other honors, including the “Maggie,” the Holt Medallion, multiple Reviewer’s Choice awards, the Career Achievement Award from RT BookReviews Magazine, and the Frank Waters Award for literary excellence. She has written 65 books with translations in 20 languages and more than 30 million copies in print worldwide. Jennifer and her husband live on a lake in northern Louisiana.
To find out more about Jennifer’s award-winning books and to purchase direct from your favorite outlet, see the Steel Magnolia Press website at www.steelmagnoliapress.com.
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Historical Paranormal Romance by Jennifer Blake
SAMPLE
~ CHAPTER 1 ~
Carita Grey was not afraid of ghosts or goblins or any other creature of darkness, real or imagined. That was why she was always given the evening errands, such as taking the vicious boxer dog belonging to the widowed aunt with whom she lived for his walk before bedtime or going for the doctor when there was illness in the house. It was why she was out tonight, collecting the flower vase left behind after the decoration of the cemetery for All Saints' Day. It was also the reason she failed to retreat when she saw the stranger sitting on the raised family tomb.
The gentleman was not particularly threatening. He was, in fact, immensely polite, rising to his feet with lithe grace, sweeping off his high silk hat, executing his bow with all the polish of a courtier before a queen. Nor was there anything to distress her in the way he looked: his handsome features and tall, broad form were too pleasing, if anything. Still, there was something about him as he stood there in the light of the rising moon with the white marble sepulchers of New Orleans' City of the Dead gleaming around him that set alarm bells clanging in her mind. That was even before he spoke.
“What kept you, chère?” he said. “I've been waiting for hours.”
Carita felt the rich tone of his voice, with its shading of familiarity and wry humor, vibrate deep inside her. It set off a rush of fierce longing that expanded, crowding out thought, heating her heart, weighting her lower body while her mind swam with the euphoric intoxication. The sensation was like nothing she had ever known, a consuming flame of purest concupiscence. Startled, unbelieving, she was defenseless against it.
The man's rigorously sculpted features softened. He transferred his hat to the same hand which held his cane, then reached out to her. As he moved forward, his long cape billowed to expose the red silk lining inside the dark folds. It made him look, for an instant, like a hawk swooping down on its prey.
“No!” she said on a quick gasp. Shuddering at the effort, she stepped backward beyond any possibility of physical contact.
He stopped and let his hand drop to his side. A waiting stillness settled over him while he regarded her with distracted care, as if listening to her panicked breathing, absorbing her reluctance. Beyond the brick and wrought iron cemetery fence, a carriage rattled past at a slow pace and faded into the night.
As quiet closed in on them once more, he said simply, “Why?”
“You—you must be mistaken in who I am, sir.” She clasped her hands tightly together at her waist under the slits of her short velvet cloak.
His mouth, sensual in its chiseled curves, exquisitely tender in the tucked corners, curved in amusement. He said, “Oh, I don't believe so.”
“Well, I certainly don't know you! And if you will permit me to pass, I have to retrieve—”
“Renfrey.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name. You did not know it.”
The tenderness of his voice was like a caress. Carita did her best to ignore it. With great firmness, she said, “Yes, well, but your saying so can hardly be called an acceptable introduction, can it? As I was saying, there is a vase behind you left by my Aunt Berthe that I must—”
“It’s worthless. I wouldn't trouble myself over it.” The words were judicious and dismissive. He paused, then said in intent demand, “How are you called?”
“Carita. It's odd, I know, but was an endearment my father used, so had special meaning to my mother before—” She halted, amazed at herself for saying so much when she had meant to say nothing at all.
“Before she died?” he finished gently. “I was reading the engraving on her tomb, I think, just now.”
Carita looked beyond him to where a bouquet of wilting chrysanthemums and wild ageratum tied with black ribbon streamers lay on the couch-like foundation of the family resting place. There were roses there, also—a huge mass of late fall blooms. How fresh they looked, as if just cut. She didn't remember her aunt bringing them. Who had?
She gave the man before her an inquiring frown. At that moment, a luna moth of enormous size fluttered from the ranks of tombs. Pale gold, ethereal, it drifted about their heads, then settled on Renfrey's broad, black-clad shoulder like a gentle, moon-dusted ghost.
And abruptly Carita's every sense was exquisitely alive.
How delightful the night was; she had hardly noticed before. Moonlight glinting on the dark and shiny leaves of the e
vergreen magnolia just beyond where they stood gave them the look of black crystal. The marble mausoleums and memorials that surrounded them were smoothly graceful and touched with peace, while the planes and angles of their shadows were velvet-edged and inviting.
She could smell the delicious scent of the roses on her mother's tomb, and from some nearby garden sweet olive drenched the air with its honeyed seduction. She identified the mustiness of decay on the withering seed pods of the magnolia, caught the dry herbal mustiness of the lantana where it grew against a headstone. The scents of parched grass and old bones hovered near.
In the mausoleum just over there, a mouse scuffled, making a nest. At the wrought iron fence, a stray cat, gray with night, weaved in and out between the palings; he had not yet detected the mouse.
The wind on her face had currents of coolness and warmth, of spice and sweetness, as if some portions of it had traveled from the snow-capped Andes while others had last drifted through nutmeg groves or over the heated sugar cane fields of a Caribbean isle. The brush of it against her skin was a languid, inciting caress. The breeze sighed through the row of cedars not far away and clattered in the magnolia leaves. It tinkled a wind chime left hanging in a distant marble tomb's doorway, and the faint, minor sound was like the passing of a soul.
A wisp of pale hair, turned platinum-and-gilt by moonlight, loosened from her chignon and blew around her face in shining filaments. As Carita caught it back with one hand, holding it, she wondered if her eyes were as night-black as those of the man who watched her.
“Your mother,” he said softly, “how did she die?”
“How?” she answered almost at random in her distraction. “She was killed by an excess of loving.”
“You mean she met death in childbirth?” He tilted his head as he waited for her answer. At the movement, the great luna moth lifted from his cape and meandered into the darkness. Without its soft presence, they were incredibly alone.
Out of the Dark Page 8
