Christina hardly listened, barely managed to mutter that it wasn't his fault and didn't matter anyway. She had only one thought. She wanted to see her son. He would be asleep, she knew, but didn't care. She just wanted to see him, to reassure herself it had all been worth this pain, that she had not just made the second biggest mistake of her life.
An hour or so later, she still sat in the nursery, staring at her child's sleeping face through the soft light of a single candle. How she loved him! For him she would endure anything. She would endure the pain of a loveless marriage, the indignity of his father's animosity.
A light rap on the door and Rosarn entered, and after discerning the somehow lovely and touching sight of her mistress just staring at the boy—a boy who had kept her running all day—she asked, "Is everything well? He's not ill, is he?"
"Oh no. I just missed him." She smiled. "Why is it I never tire of studying his sweet face?"
"Sweet while he sleeps, the devil when he's awake," Rosarn laughed lightly. "But I know what you mean. I used to stare at my own for hours on end, too. Enjoy it while you can; they grow so quickly."
Christina already knew this.
"I just came to tell you your bath is ready and I laid out your nightclothes. Are you sure you want to skip supper? I could still get a tray sent up."
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
The nursery was conveniently placed between her bedroom and the master bedroom and so Christina merely passed through her dressing room into her bedchambers.
A fire danced in the hearth and a lamp was lit, the windows closed against the rain, and the plush, dark rose-colored curtains drawn against that. The heavy rose-colored quilt was turned down and a hot bath waited by the fire. The lovely room looked warm and inviting.
She removed her clothes, hung them neatly over a chair, and climbed into the hot water, careful to keep her hair over the rim to dry before the fire. The sweet scent of lavender filled the air. Rosarn or Aggie must have used half a bottle of the precious lavender oil.
The bath water cooled too quickly and before she felt the day's tension leave her, she reluctantly climbed out, suddenly cold. She dried off quickly, and discarding the frilly, lacy nightclothes laid out on the bed, she went to the chest of drawers. She opened the bottom one and lifted the neat pile of chemises and handkerchiefs to find what she kept hidden there.
Tonight she would wear it. One day shortly after she had arrived, Aggie had passed her carrying a bundle of Justin's clothes for laundry. She had caught the faintest trace of his scent as the maid passed. That was all it had taken. She waited until Aggie busied herself with another task, snuck into the pantry, and stole his shirt.
Tonight was her wedding night and while he would have no part of her, she would have some small part of him throughout what she knew would be a sleepless night.
No sooner had she climbed into bed than a knock sounded at the door.
"Yes?"
Rosarn pushed the door open just a fraction and remained outside, thinking her mistress was still in the bath. Christina was the only woman she knew who did not find it necessary to bathe in a chemise. She did not want to embarrass her, even though she— like all the house maids—had noticed her mistress's inexplicable lack of modesty despite her obvious sweet goodness and shyness of person.
"It's the master," she whispered, glad too that she wouldn't have to see her mistress's reaction to the first night he sent for her to perform her wifely duties. "He wants you to attend him. That's all. Good night."
Christina watched the door close quickly before she could read the maid's expression for information. Though Rosarn was not like Aggie. Aggie's face always told her what she should expect from Justin— indifference or anger.
Trying to guess what he might want at this hour, she climbed out of bed and swung the long rose-colored robe over the shirt. She held it tight about her and glanced quickly into the looking glass to make certain he couldn't tell what she had on beneath. Then she descended the stairs and with a pounding heart that signaled no small amount of apprehension.
The study was vacant. She looked in both the parlor and the dining room but found them vacant as well. He must have changed his mind or forgotten and then retired without waiting for her. She felt a sudden flood of relief and she quickly returned to her bedroom.
She tossed the robe to a sitting chair and flew into the bed like a child, burying herself in the warm quilts and almost immediately losing herself to the faint, ever so pleasant scent of his shirt. The small remnant of days long lost sent her swiftly to the distant shores of her memories, where she wandered restlessly for some time.
With her pulse racing, her face flushed, she sat up, as far from the peaceful state conducive to sleep as she might be. How could mere memories stir that sweet warmth through her loins? How could she want him so? Wanting him shamelessly like... like—
She wouldn't admit the shockingly unchaste thought even to herself.
Anxiously she looked around the quiet room in search of something innocuous to rest her gaze on. The lantern still burned; she had forgotten to extinguish it. The small brass gilt clock ticked softly on the mantel, rain fell in a soft patter against the window panes, and she listened with intense concentration to these but in a near desperate attempt to quiet her thoughts.
Justin waited in his bedchambers until her message became perfectly clear. She would not come to him; he would have to go to her. Fine. She could have it her way. He stormed from his room, slamming the door behind him.
Christina bolted up, alert and as still as a doe with the scent of a hunter. His footsteps warned of his anger even before he reached the door of her room. The door opened and she scrambled up to the bedpost, holding on with both hands for some false sense of security. Justin entered and stood with his hands on his hips, his long legs spread apart and ever so obviously furious about something.
"What game is this?" he demanded.
Game? She didn't know what he meant, but he seemed to suddenly take notice of his shirt. Now he would be angry about that too. Like all times of uncertainty, she bit her lip, looking every bit like the guilty child she felt.
Had he wanted to torment himself, he would have created the exact picture of her that he now stared at. A light shining from behind to silhouette the slender shape covered in a man's shirt—his shirt, he realized. The long loosened hair cascaded carelessly around her and her face was shadowed in darkness. A picture of provocative innocence.
His anger simmered with desire and even he recognized the danger of such a potion. "Do I have to carry you kicking and screaming to my bed?"
"What?" She glanced at the bed. "I... I don't understand?"
"You don't?" He wondered if this could be true. "This is our wedding night." He stated the blunt fact. "Surely you don't expect me to make the same mistake as your first husband and leave our marriage unconsummated?"
After precious long seconds of true bewilderment, the reality crashed into her consciousness. She couldn't believe it. He could not bear to kiss her and yet he thought to consummate their marriage. She shook her head and all she could think was, "you don't mean it..."
Justin suddenly saw she truly had not known. Ignorant and innocent. The long wait for her had not been attended by frightened apprehension or reluctance. No, this was her fear and apprehension and reluctance staring him in the face, bare and real and unconceived, and so much worse because of it.
"I'll repeat myself," he said in a carefully controlled voice that he didn't feel. "Do I have to carry you kicking and screaming to my bed?"
She couldn't move, not a step, and she just knelt at the bedpost staring at him stupidly.
Justin wasted no more time and swept down upon her, lifting her into his arms. He carried her the short distance to his bedchambers, pushed open the door, and set her to her feet before the fire. Wordlessly, he shut the door and then went to his bed to begin undressing.
Christina's gaze darted around the one room in the house she ha
d never seen, seeing everything and seeing nothing. It was larger, larger than hers by thrice as much and looked at once enormous and spacious and ever so masculine. The fine furnishings—a long clothes closet and chest of drawers, sitting table and chairs, an impressive desk, and the huge four-poster bed—all were polished and hand carved, and everything—the heavy velvet curtains, the patchwork quilt and the rich tapestry rugs were dark shades of blue, greens, and gold. Lamps on either side of the bed threw soft light into the room. A fire in the wide brick hearth danced hungrily and though she felt its heat burn on her bare legs, she shivered uncontrollably.
He could not bear to kiss her and yet he thought to consummate their marriage; the thought repeated itself over and over until she imagined an ugly scene that contrasted dramatically with memories she cherished: he would hold her down, no kisses or touching, just— "Oh Justin, please." Her hand went to her mouth and she started crying as she shook her head. "I can't bear it..."
Justin stood slowly to his feet. She could not be this desperate and distressed by the thought of his touch that she would plead with him. Yet he was staring at her tears, a slight trembling of her bare form beneath the shirt, the way she hugged herself to stop from totally succumbing to an obviously enormous fear sweeping over her.
Where was the Christina who fell laughingly into his arms? Where was the Christina who once whispered to him that she wanted to spend all day kissing him just to see if it truly was an insatiable desire she felt? Where was the woman whose unexpected passion met his own time and again? And, God, what had he ever done to deserve such fear and loathing?
"Your... ah, reluctance is obvious, Christina," he first said and decided suddenly that he needed a drink. He went to a cabinet and poured brandy into a glass. "But let me explain something. You're my wife and I will have you tonight. Pleading, tears, not even a goddamned army could dissuade me from my intent. Is that understood?"
Christina swallowed and nodded, a growing numbness saving her from any more demonstrations of the extent of her desperation. Numbness that would enable her to go through with it.
Justin took the brandy whole, then poured another and brought the glass to the bed. It was set on the nightstand with an angry clink. He removed his boots and shirt and then watched her eyes quickly find the floor as he shrugged from his breeches. He almost laughed out loud. As virginal as if it truly were their first time. He suddenly didn't care, didn't care about anything except awakening her to what she had forgotten. And he would not make it easy for her.
He tossed his breeches to a nearby chair and then sat down on the bed and leaned against the headboard to watch her. He took a sip of brandy. "Do me the favor of undressing yourself."
Her eyes shot up at the cruelty of this but one glimpse at his brass stare, the evidence of his desire, and they lowered quickly. With pained apprehension, she glanced around for a place to hide.
"Not a chance. Stand where you are. And, Christina," his voice mocked her, "don't make me repeat myself."
He watched her hands tremble as she undid the buttons of his ridiculously large shirt. She finally freed herself from the garment but held it tight in front of her to cover what he'd have shown.
"Drop it."
The shirt fell to an unnoticed heap at her feet. She crossed her arms over her self and the red-gold hair tumbled past her hips.
Justin drew a sharp breath. Like Botticelli's Venus. He knew then his judgment was clouded. She could not really be this beautiful. He swallowed his brandy whole and gave his last order. "Come here."
She moved slowly to the bed until she stood in front of him. For a long moment she felt his gaze studying her and she waited helplessly. She expected to be lowered to the bed and for him to be done with her as fast as such a thing was possible.
A lone tear fell over her cheek, dropping onto her hair.
Justin sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed so that she stood between them. He reached for her hair and brushed it behind her back. Taking her hands in his, he brought her arms to her side, leaving her bare and vulnerable to his gaze.
"My God," he whispered under his breath, "you're even more beautiful than I remembered."
She stopped breathing.
He traced his hand lightly over the faint line that remained from her attack and he remembered the whispered promise they made as lovers, "Never let me go—'Never!" Then his hand found another line on her breast, small and even fainter, the only remnant he could find of the fact that she had bore him his son. Bound together forever and at least for this one night he would make her his again.
Justin gently brought her to the bed. His gentleness brought her eyes open with a question but he only partially understood her confusion.
"No, Christina," he replied as the long length of him came partially over her. "This will not be over quickly."
She didn't understand what was happening. He rested his weight on his elbows on either side of her head, staring down at her. His thumbs lightly caressed her forehead, a small gesture but intimate and, yes, loving. She held her breath and kept her eyes closed, still braced for something worse than unpleasant.
Justin could have lost himself then and there. His senses filled with her lavender scent, the incredible softness of her slender form beneath him, all of which created a maddening battle for some control. But he would have her slow and at any cost to himself. As his hand lightly explored the contours of her face, he lifted partially from her to savor the sight of her unclad beauty waiting for him.
She felt devoured by his gaze, his gaze alone, and it was all she could do not to cover herself from him. It was becoming clear that he didn't intend the scenario she imagined but what he was intending seemed even worse. He would awaken her; he would stretch his lovemaking and force her open and vulnerable to him, just as he made her stand before him like that. He knew she could not resist his touch, not ever, not even knowing his hatred toward her. He would take possession of her—mind, body, and, soul—only to casually, cruelly discard her when he was through.
She could not let him do that.
With a knowing smile, Justin watched the beckoning lips thin to a hard line, the sudden look of determination set on the delicate features. He had expected it. "You would try to resist me, Christina?" he asked as his hand slowly followed his gaze.
She bit her lip and opened her eyes to see his expression of gentle mocking. She couldn't bear it. She closed her eyes again and turned away but he stopped her movement.
"I thought I explained it all once or twice before," he whispered against her ear as he came over her. His lips lightly brushed over the contours of her face, along the long line of her neck. She shivered, squirming slightly as though in discomfort. "You can't resist me. I won't let you." His fingers lightly traced over her lips, teasingly, waiting for them to open. "I'll never let you."
Her lips parted with a small pained gasp and then he kissed her. It was as the first. Gentle and tender, his lips barely brushing hers, but after one taste of her sweetness, he wanted more. The kiss deepened, then lingered teasingly, then deepened again. And like the first, it was her undoing.
One kiss became another and another.
The taste of her! He could not get enough, and as his lips left hers to travel along her neck and back again, he began working her body as a sculptor works clay. Gentle but not, caressing, exploring, slowly taking his time to prove his point. She cried out softly, succumbing to a sea of sensations his hands and lips brought her. He forced the whole of her body to race toward that promise of ecstasy, a promise she knew was but a momentary prize before certain defeat.
What thoughts she had of resisting were banished. He allowed her no thoughts. He pursued his pleasure with seemingly the sole purpose of possession. Complete possession. Whether an hour or two or none passed, she could not think to know. She only knew when she could not bear this exquisite peak of agony a moment longer, when she felt the first tremors of ecstasy and her arms pulled him to her as she called
out his name.
His wait was over and he answered her cry, joining her to him in the timeless way of a man and a woman. The first feel of her nearly ended him but still he stretched his love, nearly dying a hundred times as he watched and felt the intensity of her response, his own in turn, and finally her ecstasy that at first seemed unwilling to stop. Then and only then did he lose himself to her, the intensity of it leaving him momentarily weak and dazed and stunned.
Justin rolled over, not for a minute willing to let her go. He brought her with him.
Just as shaken, if not more so, Christina buried herself in him. He could not hate her and make love to her like that! It was not possible she knew. She could feel his love, feel it, and even if he did not forgive her now, he would do so soon. He had to, for his heart would force him.
The force of her love swept through her and left her shaking softly with tears. She fought for words to beg him to forgive her; words that would explain everything; words that would declare the truth—that she couldn't go on like this any longer, she loved him and desperately so!
Suddenly Justin tensed and shifted as though shocked, and she instantly reacted with fear.
No, he could not do that to her!
He lifted her face to him. Tears and fear. Before and after. He just stared as the reality swept through him in a wave of anguish.
When was he going to get it through his head?
With wide anxious eyes, Christina watched as he swung out of bed and quickly pulled on his breeches. The warmth left with him and she was suddenly shaking. He turned back to her and, without a word, he lifted her into his arms, through the hall, and into her bedroom, setting her onto her own bed. She stared in disbelief, as still without a word he turned to leave.
Horsman, Jennifer Page 31
