She hesitated a moment, then joined him. Her thigh accidentally brushed against his, and a jumble of sensations rampaged through her, like tiny flames leaping from a newly made fire in the hearth.
She would do well, she warned herself, to remain wary and on her guard.
"I can see why. It is beautiful." For a moment, listening to the waterfall, she could pretend that nothing was wrong, that she was home again and there were no sad thoughts to plague her mind or plunder her heart. She tugged at a blade of grass, then slowly split it in half. It is no different from the grass at home, she thought. No matter what happens, the earth always remains unchanged. The land endures.
"How large is your plantation?"
She is homesick, he thought. He could see it in her eyes. He leaned back for a moment, his weight resting on the palms of his hands. "My father says we have close to a quarter of a million acres." He saw her surprise. "What's the matter?" He laughed. "Didn't you think people in the Colonies had a lot of land?" He watched in fascination as the sun played on her hair, teasing out red shafts. It made him ache to touch it. To touch her. "I'm sure this is nothing compared to what you left behind, but out here, it's considered a sizable piece."
What will she do if I kiss her again? he wondered. Will she push me away? Or will she welcome it as much as I?
"Oh, it is quite large," she agreed. "Ours is — " She pressed her lips together, remembering. "Was larger, but not by very much." Was. It caused her pain to say it. "We had a lot of people living on it and harvesting our crop." She smiled at him, grateful for this small respite. "Like you do."
He shook his head, straightening up. "No, not quite like us." He didn't really know what stand to take on the issue of slavery. Although, in his heart, he felt that all men should be free, he saw no other options for landowners with property the size of his father's. Still, it was something he was going to have to resolve for himself before he became master of his own land.
"Your people are peasants, poor, but their own masters. Ours belong to us."
She couldn't tell by his expression whether he approved of slavery or not. She knew that she didn't. "Our peasants," she told him quietly, "are free to do the work, or to leave —and die." She turned toward him. "The situation, Mr. Morgan, is much the same."
She is trying to put distance between us, he thought. Addressing him the way she did, she was hiding behind manners. It wouldn't work. "Jason," he prompted.
She rose abruptly and moved toward an elm tree, putting it between them. Jason followed, as she knew he would. She was desperately trying to construct a wall, to keep him from getting close to her. And she was failing.
"Where I come from, it is not considered polite to call a stranger by his first name."
Picking up a handful of pebbles, Jason crossed to her side. He tossed a pebble into the stream and watched the rings of water form as it sank from view. "I think I'm hardly a stranger."
She had expected him to mock her, and was surprised when he didn't. She watched in silence as he threw another pebble. It skimmed along the surface, and the water shimmered. Just as my skin does when he touches me, she thought.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked quietly.
"I told you. I wanted you to see this."
It was not enough. "But why did you trust me? I tried to run away that first night," she reminded him.
He shrugged. "You gave your word to my father that you would stay."
Honor and her word were everything to her, but she hadn't expected him to understand. That he did, that he trusted her, warmed her heart. It made her vulnerable to him, and there was nothing she could do about it. "And you believed that?"
Yes, he did. He didn't know why, but he did. There were things he knew about this raven-haired woman, knew without knowing why. They were kindred souls. He wondered when she would grow to understand that. "I believe that once you give your word, you'll keep it." The small rock he threw sank, leaving only two rings to commemorate it. Would he be like that rock, or like the one that skimmed the water touching many places before it left a wealth of rings in its wake? He looked at her for a moment. "You don't strike me as the flighty type."
What did flying have to do with anything? She puzzled on that, then came to the conclusion that he meant he didn't think she'd fly off after giving her word. She gathered that being flighty was not an admirable attribute. "Is that what you consider most women?"
He dropped the pebbles and then sat down on the bank. "Most," he agreed.
She could not hold back the words that came to her lips. "Like your fiancee?"
He laughed as he looked up at her, his eyes coaxing her to sit down beside him. She resisted. He looked like an innocent boy. But he wasn't. Not to her. She knew enough to realize that looks were very deceiving.
He saw no reason why she should even think of the other woman. "Charity doesn't have much of a brain in her head."
Krystyna thought of the way the blonde had pressed her ample bosom against his arm. "Perhaps it is not her brain that interests you."
He let out an impatient breath and wished he had never laid eyes on Charity. "We keep coming back to Charity, don't we? Don't let her bother you."
She was angrier with herself than with him for having said anything. "She does not bother me," Krystyna said hotly. She turned to move away, but he caught the edge of her hem, forcing her to remain where she was.
"Yes, she does." Krystyna tugged at her skirt, but he held the hem fast. She is going to stay put and listen to my piece, he vowed, or risk tearing her dress. He had to explain things to her. "Charity more or less engaged herself to me. She's a nice girl, but not the woman I'd want to marry. I'm engaged to her for my own convenience. My father has stopped bothering me about the fact that I'm still unmarried, and no marriage-minded ladies have tried to put a claim on me since the engagement."
He was an insufferable oaf! "How nice for you," she said icily.
"I'm not ready for marriage." Marriage had always seemed like a box to him, a prison which men sought to escape in any way they could. He had only to look to his father and brother for examples. Why involve himself in it of his own free will if it was not a pleasing state?
"How fortunate for the female populace. Probably no woman would be ready to take on such a problem."
Her response tickled him. He opened his hand, releasing the fabric. "Well, at least we agree on that much. Come, sit by me," he urged. When she made no move to do so, he added, "Tell me about your home."
His entreaty sounded sincere. How did he know that she wanted to talk about it? That she ached to recreate it in her mind, to paint it with words? Carefully arranging her skirts, and taking care not to brush against him this time, she sat down next to him.
"My home was on a hill." Her eyes no longer saw the scene before her as a vivid picture flashed through her mind. "I could look out the window on the north side and see for miles. And it was all ours. In the summer, the fragrance from the trees — " Abruptly, she stopped, self-conscious. "You really do not want to hear about this."
Krystyna saw the way he was looking at her. His attention was not on what she was saying. His eyes, his soft, liquid eyes were touching her everywhere, and she felt it just as vividly as if his hands had been upon her.
Gently, Jason cupped her cheek. "I'm glad you kept your hair down."
She was having trouble catching her breath again. When he looked at her like that, he made that happen.
Her mind was racing ahead, drawing on a foundation from the past. "I had no choice. You dragged me away before I could secure it properly."
"Shh." He placed a finger on her lips. "Let me pretend that it was done to please me."
"Please you?" she cried. She couldn't have him believing that. It would only encourage him.
"I knew you would" he whispered. He leaned over and brushed her lips softly with his own. "From the first moment I saw you."
Her head began to reel again, threatening to let thought desert her
.
His lips roamed languidly over her face, kissing her eyes, the hollow of her throat, making pulses come alive and beat madly. Her breath was already ragged as she pushed him back.
"Wait, I cannot do this sort of thing." But even as she protested, she knew that she would. She knew that she needed to take the step that would lead her to a place only he could create for her.
"Yes, you can," he murmured against her skin, feeling it heat beneath his touch. Jason gently pushed her back until she was lying on the ground, her hair pooling about her head like a dark halo. Even now, with his blood roaring in his veins, demanding fulfillment, he would force himself to stop if she told him to. But with all his heart, he believed she wanted this as much as he. He had sampled the passion that was on her lips. Its mate was within his soul.
She was achingly aware of his hands as they slowly slid down the length of her body, making every fiber come alive. She seemed to be drugged with opium, yet she had never felt so vibrant, so aware of every part of her. He was bringing about responses she had never dreamed existed.
Often, she had romanticized about love, had even felt slightly aroused when she'd thought about marrying Thaddeus. But passion was something she had never associated with marriage. The only passion she had ever felt was for her land, and for the cause that had eventually made them flee to this country.
Passion for a man was something very different. Yet she felt it now, for this man.
There was no shame in it, though she knew there should be. Only an all-consuming flame that urged her onward. She knew she should be fighting him off, but with all her heart, she didn't want to. More than anything in the world, she wanted him to weave this magic, to fuel this fire he had started in her blood.
She wanted. She wanted . . . she knew not what, but in her heart, Krystyna knew the answer lay with him.
A war raged within her, and she was doomed to lose no matter what the outcome.
It took all the control Jason had not to rip the clothing from her and take her. But he knew she needed gentleness. Deserved gentleness. He would show her what it meant to be loved, and he would do it with tenderness, though that would cost him dearly.
Carefully, he slipped a hand inside her bodice, his clever fingers searching out the soft and tender skin of her breasts beneath the thin chemise. His thumb rubbed against her nipple, and he felt it stiffen and grow beneath his touch. When she arched against his hand, he was aroused almost beyond endurance. Slowly, with a feathered touch, he moved his palm to her other breast. She moaned his name, biting down on her lip.
Still he saw the slightest shimmer of hesitation in her eyes. "Oh, Krys, don't hold back." The words danced on her skin, warm with his breath. His lips touched her hair. "It isn't natural to deny yourself this way."
The material slid down her breasts, and she heard his intake of breath and her own. He lowered his head, his lips reverently gliding along her skin, heating her with his tenderness, moistening her with his tongue. This was wrong, shameful, but she wanted it, wanted more. Wanted him. Explosions of emotions roared through her like cannon fire, in sharp contrast to the gentleness he employed. He had seduced her with the first kiss.
She was lost, lost to the magic of his touch, lost to the wonders he created for her with his lips. She had no strength with which to push him away. She could only draw him to her. She ached to touch him, to possess him the way he possessed her. There was not even the slightest hesitation as she slid her hands beneath his shirt, her fingers splaying against his warm skin. As his kisses deepened, her hands roamed to his back, exploring the ridges there which rippled as he moved against her.
How could this be so bad, so sinful, when it felt so purifyingly wonderful?
Without thinking, only feeling, she moved her hands down, slipping them beneath his britches, touching his taut firm buttocks. He hardened against her. Her blood thundered in her ears, but she could not stop. She was no longer in control of her actions. It was as if her hands, her body had minds of their own. Her emotions had completely taken over, allowing no thoughts to be formed.
So, lost in the haze of fire and sensation, Krystyna was hardly aware that Jason lifted her skirt and deftly moved beyond the barriers of the cumbersome petticoats until she felt her pantaloons slip down.
She gasped, but he covered her mouth with his own, blotting out her protest, smothering it with passions that sprang up to link themselves with the others.
Her body sizzled with anticipation as she felt him roll over onto her and place himself between her legs.
He framed her face with his hands. "I won't hurt you," he promised, the words melting onto her skin. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she absorbed him.
The thrust that came brought pain with it, and her eyes flew open. She cried out, but the noise was lost within his mouth and his kisses dulled the ache until it was gone, ecstasy and a hunger for more of him taking its place.
Her skin gleamed with sweat as she moved with him, feeling everything, aware of nothing but him. She had gotten lost in a world he had created for her, a world where only they existed. And waves of exquisite ecstasy. Later, she would regret. Later there would be penance for her trespasses.
Now there was only joy.
And Jason.
All that existed was this overpowering need within her to have him hold her and love her. They spiraled upward to the final explosion of sensations, clinging to one another for survival.
Spent, she lay next to him, breathing heavily, trying to hold the world at bay. But the moment slipped away and she came back to earth despite her desperate attempt to hold onto the glow he had created within her.
When it was gone, she hated herself for being so weak and for giving in to him. For giving in to herself. Had it only been him, had he overpowered her, then she wouldn't have been so upset, so angry. After all, she was only a woman and not able to control her fate in such matters. He was far stronger than she.
It was knowing she had wanted him, had surrendered so easily to him and to her own wanton appetite, that caused her anguish.
What was she allowing herself to become? What would her father have thought of her? Sweet Jesu, what was the matter with her? Maruska had said this was something a woman had to endure, but certainly nothing she would crave. What had he done to her?
With a ragged sigh, Krystyna sat up, running a hand through her hair. She saw her downfall in his lovemaking. In Jason. Quickly, she rose to her feet.
Her fingers were shaking as she tried to adjust her clothing. "I would like to return now." She wished her voice wouldn't quaver.
Jason was surprised at this sudden change in her. Why was she drawing away from him? He had wanted to hold her, to savor this moment. She might as well have thrown cold water in his face. He couldn't understand how she could be so fiery, so willing in his arms at one moment, then so cold and reserved the next. She was the strangest woman he had ever met.
Were all the women in Europe like this? No, one of the bar girls at the tavern was from England. Bridget was always willing to have him make love to her. But then, her responses were dull and unexciting. Not in the same realm as what he had just experienced with this raven-haired witch who stood before him.
Was it regret she was feeling over the loss of her maidenhead? He rose and tried to place his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged him off, moving away.
If he touched her again, she was going to be undone. She couldn't show weakness. Or cry. His opinion of her was undoubtedly bad enough as it was.
Her reaction to his touch stung, and he dropped his hands to his sides. "Very well," he finally said, his voice hard as he curbed his temper. "If you've seen enough, I'll take you home."
She turned her head away. Tears were welling up within her. She didn't understand what he was doing to her. She had always been so logical, so terribly clear in everything she did and thought. Why were emotions wreaking havoc within her? Was this what it meant to be a woman? Was this what it was like to be i
n love?
She looked at Jason in horror. His back was to her as he went to get the horses, and he didn't see her expression.
Love.
She hadn't thought of that, hadn't considered the possibility of loving Jason. He wasn't anything like the man she had envisioned as her future husband. Jason had manners, but he was also rough and unrefined. He didn't share her feelings or her heritage or any of the things that were so important to her. How could she even think she might entertain an affection for him, much less love him?
No, I want no ties to this heathenish place, she told herself. I am just alone and frightened. That is why I have these feelings.
Reaching out for something that might comfort her, she clung to this excuse for her behavior, and lifting her head high, she took the reins he offered her. "Thank you for showing me your land." She struggled to keep her voice devoid of emotion. "It was a," she faltered and hated the knowing smile that came to his lips, "a pleasant morning."
"I thought it was."
She suffered his assistance in mounting, then turned her horse in the direction of the house and rode away without even glancing at him.
Jason shook his head and followed in her wake, wondering what sort of a Pandora's box he had managed to open.
Chapter Thirteen
"Would you like to go to church?"
Krystyna looked up from the quilt she was working on with Lucinda. Three days had passed since she and Jason had been in the meadow together. Three days since he had made love to her and brought her dishonor. And dreams to fill her nights. She had hardly spoken to him since then and had done her best to avoid being alone with him. In part she was relieved that he hadn't tried to approach her, yet she would have been less than honest with herself if she didn't admit that his lack of attention stung. It meant that he had only wanted his way with her, to satisfy his appetites and nothing more. A tiny seedling of hope within her had secretly prayed there would be something more, that the kindness she had glimpsed in his eyes contained some feeling for her.
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