Violet Fire

by Jo Goodman

  “Now, that is a pity,” Paul said, shaking his head. “You’ve always taken such pleasure in it.”

  Brandon put his arm around Shannon. “What Aurora is not saying is that she took a spill jumping the worm fence and I don’t let her ride alone any longer. She’s a trifle shy around the horses now.” When Paul and Michaeline expressed concern and began asking for details, Brandon managed to give them an astonishingly colorful picture of an incident that had never taken place. Shannon was too dumbfounded to do more than nod in agreement, while Cody joined in the spirit of the thing and added a few particulars of his own.

  Seeing Shannon’s forlorn expression and taking it to mean that she thought she had disappointed him, Paul didn’t have the heart to tell his daughter that she should have immediately gotten on her mount again as she had so often done in the past. Michaeline’s response was equal parts sympathy and horror, and she said she understood perfectly well why Brandon refused to let her ride without an escort.

  “You always were a reckless rider,” Michaeline said reprovingly. “And to never mention a word of your accident to us! I shudder to think of you laid up in bed like that. You did us no kindness, Aurora.”

  “Really, Mama, you are making too much of it. This is precisely the reason I said nothing.” Then, with a measure of the backbone that she knew was Aurora’s, she added spiritedly, “And I meant it as a kindness.” She knew she had handled it perfectly when Cody grinned in approval and Brandon’s fingers were like a whisper along the curve of her neck.

  “Of course you meant it as a kindness,” said Paul. He looked at everyone in turn. “So, do we take the carriage then?”

  Brandon shook his head. “No, we’ll ride. Aurora and I can share a mount.” He leered playfully, causing Michaeline to laugh delightedly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Shannon managed not to blush. “I don’t mind at all.” She neatly escaped his hold, teasing him with a sidelong glance, and took Michaeline’s arm. “Come, Mama. I’ll show you Clara’s pony while Papa chooses the horses.”

  Michaeline made appreciative noises over Rainbow while their mounts were being saddled. Shannon could think of no excuse that would allow her to escape the ride, and permitted Brandon to give her a leg up. Her eyes followed the agile grace of his movements as he lifted himself into the saddle behind her. Michaeline’s eyes brightened with pleasure as Shannon settled herself comfortably against Brandon’s chest and his arms slipped around her waist to take the reins. The smile that touched her lips and the sigh of contentment that followed were genuine, and with uncharacteristic recklessness, Shannon didn’t think she cared if Brandon realized it.

  Later, in her bedchamber, Shannon brushed out her hair and tried to remember what had occurred during the ride. She had a vague awareness of the stillness of the evening and the way in which she seemed to move through the heavy air rather than it moving around her. A wonderful sense of languor had crept over her, and she recalled little that Brandon had said regarding the plantation and nothing at all of the Marchands’ responses or Cody’s ripostes. What she remembered clearly was Brandon’s mouth close to her ear, his hand brushing across her breast when he pulled back the reins, the taut length of his thighs cradling her hip. She touched the back of her hand to the cheek she had laid against Brandon’s shoulder and imagined she could feel the softness of his linen shirt and the warmth of the flesh beneath it. She wondered now how she had dared to finger his neckcloth or press the heel of her hand over his heart for even a moment. Neither of those actions had been strictly necessary. The desire to touch him intimately, a desire that had been growing steadily within her, finally became a need stronger than her natural caution, stronger than the guard she had placed around her common sense.

  Shannon gave her hair a few punishingly hard strokes and then laid the brush aside. The brass skeleton key that opened the door connecting her chamber to Brandon’s rested on top of a black lacquered jewelry box. Mocking her, she thought angrily. She picked it up and turned it over in her palm, then finally crushed it in her fist until she could feel the imprint, like a brand, on her flesh. She closed her eyes, helplessly recalling other brands, the pressure of his mouth on the curve of her shoulder, the hot urgency of his hand on her hip. Disgusted with herself, Shannon stood. Her arm slashed the air in a violent arc as she threw the key against the gray marble fireplace. Then, a moment later, with a cry of despair that was torn from her deepest, most private self, she was on her hands and knees and sifting through cold ashes to retrieve it.

  Having come to the conclusion that sleep was no longer a possibility, Brandon swung his legs over the side of the four-poster. He groped in the dark for the breeches he had thrown at the foot of the bed and pulled them on. After lighting a candle on the bedside table, he thumbed through an agricultural pamphlet he had been reading earlier. It could not capture his attention, let alone hold it, and after a few minutes he tossed it aside.

  Agitated by his inability to think clearly and his inability to give the muddled thoughts a rest, Brandon left the bed and sat on the window seat. Moonshine was scattered by a bank of fog. The mist rolled from the river on silent wheels, shrouding acres of fertile land in a smoky veil. Brandon turned away from the window and leaned his naked back against the cool panes of glass. It was a poor sort of relief to the heated flush of his skin.

  His eyes were drawn to the connecting door. He wondered if Shannon was sleeping. He hoped not. She didn’t deserve it. If she had really been his wife, if he hadn’t known that her actions tonight were part of the charade he had initiated, he would have her with him now, fulfilling the promise she had made earlier when her body curved intimately against his.

  He could still feel the tentative caress of her fingers at the base of his bare throat where she had fumbled with his neckcloth. The fragrance of her hair sifted through his memory and he breathed deeply, as if he could somehow capture it again. His hands were clenched into tight fists to erase the feel of molding them against the narrow span of her waist. He had never been so aware of his own body, as though she defined its planes with the shape of her own.

  But he could not, would not, go to her. What was happening to him now was nothing less than he had expected, nothing less than he deserved. She was playing the role he had outlined for her, and it was his problem that he wanted more. His laughter was short, mocking, and utterly humorless. Hadn’t he been the one who had said she must learn to touch him? How could he explain to her that she had learned the lesson too well?

  Brandon was catapulted from his seat when the connecting door narrowly cracked open and Shannon slipped through. She didn’t see him at first because her attention was directed toward the four-poster. Brandon tried to name what he saw in her eyes then. Relief? Disappointment? He had only begun to grasp the nature of her emotion when she saw him and expression vanished from her face. Her features, the fathomless eyes, the fine bridge of her nose, the high arch of her cheekbones, stood out in stark relief and gave nothing of her thoughts away. There was a streak of soot along her jawline and another on the pale skin of her chest where the neckline of her linen nightgown dipped low. The sleeves of the gown were pushed up to her elbows, and each lace-trimmed cuff was dusted with ash. Brandon’s attention was drawn to her hands. One was closed tightly; the other opened and closed in a nervous rhythm. Both were nearly black.

  She seemed to be unaware of her appearance, and he said nothing because it mattered naught to him. She was here. It was the only thing he cared about.

  Shannon’s bare feet made no sound as she crossed the room to stand before Brandon. She had no clear idea of what she wanted to say to him or the manner in which it must be said. Lifting her chin slightly, as if she were defying him, she spoke in the transparent, crystal tones of youth and innocence. “I love you,” she said. “Before I lay with you, I loved you. And I loved you after. What I feel for you has been my greatest joy and my deepest shame. I have nothing to recommend me except a face you seem to find attractive an
d a body that can pleasure you. I am a felon. I am a whore. I can apologize for neither because they are true, and it was you who taught me the futility of apology.”

  Brandon raised a hand to stop her. “Shannon—”

  “No, I must finish this,” she said with pained conviction. “One of my crimes is deeply tied to my past; the other is my present…and future, if you will have it so. I came to your room for one reason tonight, to tell you that if you desire me, I will be your whore, your mistress, whatever you choose to call it, for as long as you wish it.”

  Brandon’s dark eyes bore deeply into hers. Had she any idea how profoundly her declaration had shaken him? The flower that was Shannon had blossomed, and only now did he realize how sadly twisted that little flower was. She spoke of her love as if she despised herself for it. She offered her body for his pleasure without the knowledge that lying with her would be more than a carnal joining, that for him, it would be the honoring of all he held dear. She could not have been more wrong when she said she had nothing to recommend her. Her spirit, battered and embittered to be sure, had never been completely cowed. She had fears, rooted in events that repulsed him with their horror, but she was not, nor had she ever been, a coward. Brandon recognized, though he knew Shannon did not, that she had a great capacity for enjoying life as she had come to know it at the folly. It was in her unexpected laughter in the smile that curved her mouth in an unguarded moment, in the way she lifted her face to drink in air and sunshine when she walked outdoors. She was a sensual creature who had been taught that such pleasure was to be regarded as sin rather than celebration.

  It was this last thought that hit him with the force of a powerful blow and sent his mind reeling. It explained so much of her reaction to his lovemaking that he wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He had to know the truth from her.

  His husky whisper did not quite overshadow the raw appeal in his tone. “If you only want to be my whore, why say that you love me?”

  Shannon did not flinch from his words, though to her own ears it sounded worse when he used the name she applied to herself. “I said it because I thought it might excuse the pleasure I find when you touch me. I realize it does not, but it is true nonetheless. Only a whore finds pleasure. You said yourself that your wife found none in your arms.”

  Brandon’s face blanched. “Dear God,” he said, pulling Shannon roughly into his arms. He pressed her head to his shoulder and lay his cheek against her hair. It did not seem he could get her close enough, though he could feel the very outline of her slender frame against him. “That you should have put such a construction on my words.”

  Shannon raised her face slightly. Her breath touched the pulse beating in the cord of Brandon’s neck. “What do you mean?”

  “Aurora hated me, Shannon. Had you not realized that? She has not your capacity for pleasure, certainly not in my arms. And as for whores feeling pleasure, never was there a myth more deserving of an end. They like to tell the man of the moment it is so, but it is their business to offer the illusion of satisfaction. Most men do not even care. They do not go to a whore to satisfy her needs, but to assuage their own. That is not how it will be between you and me, Shannon. Though others may call you whore or mistress, though you may name yourself as such, I will never see you in that light. It is not possible for me to see you for anything but what you are to me: the woman I hold above all others; the woman I love.”

  Awed by the fierce certainty of his tone, Shannon slid her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe, drawing his mouth to hers. “It is more than I hoped for, more than I believed possible.” Then she kissed him with the sweet clarity of passion unfolding. Her mouth opened under the insistent pressure of his. The kiss seared her senses. Behind his head her clenched fist opened and the key that had burned its print into her palm dropped to the floor, unnoticed by either of them.

  Brandon turned Shannon in his arms, lifted her, and then carried her to his bed. The kiss between them became a dozen little kisses. She touched her lips to his jaw, the taut plane of his cheek, the corner of his eye. Her tongue flicked the lobe of his ear and her teeth tugged it gently. Her head fell back as he lowered her to the counterpane and she felt the exquisite heat of his mouth against her throat.

  Her hands slid across the smooth muscles of his back, over his shoulders, and down his chest. Light from the single candle flickered over his face as he eased the gown over her shoulders and bared her breasts. Her breath caught as he made no attempt to hide the depth of his desire. He wore it like a badge of honor, as if it were a matter of pride that he wanted her. The beautifully cast planes of his face were taut with the intensity of his need. She could not doubt the nature of his feelings for her. She was desired, adored, and loved.

  And for the first time in her life she felt no shame in desiring, adoring, or loving. A smile touched her mouth, a smile of pure, unsullied joy that bespoke the moment. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth and darken, and realized he required no explanation. He knew what she was feeling because he echoed it.

  Watching her face, Brandon placed his hand on her breast and drew his thumb across her nipple. Her eyes closed briefly but she could not bear to look away and she held his gaze while his fingers continued to ignite sparks of sensation. When she moved restlessly, arching to feel the full pressure of his palm against her flesh, Brandon lowered his head and gave her the suck of his mouth instead. Her fingers threaded in his hair and she gave herself up to the pressure of his lips, the wet fire of his tongue, and the delicious torment of his teeth closing over her nipple. The small sounds of her pleasure were not to be silenced. They rose in her throat, and this time she did not try to bite them back. She wanted him to know that she was no longer embarrassed by the intimacy of his caress.

  When Brandon removed her gown, she did not attempt to hide herself. For a long time he touched her only with his eyes, but she felt as if his hand were brushing the flat plane of her abdomen and curving across her hip. It may as well have been his mouth on the soft skin of her inner thigh.

  He rid himself of his breeches and lay down beside her, throwing one leg across both of hers. It was an act of capture, and Shannon knew herself to be quite willing to allow him the gesture. Her arm slipped around his waist as he curved her body into his, and her thighs parted to permit his entry. But he did not press his entry then. The tips of his fingers traced her hipbone, making ever-widening forays around it until they dipped into the tuft of hair at the juncture of her thighs.

  The pads of her fingers dug into his shoulders as Brandon stroked the very core of her pleasure. Sensation spiraled outward, leaving none of her untouched. The back of her neck prickled, her breasts swelled, her abdomen contracted as if a force were bearing down upon it.

  There was no pain when he thrust into her, only a sense of lightness that he was joined to her so intimately. For a moment the waves of tension had abated; now they returned with a new urgency. She greeted his measured thrusts eagerly, no longer afraid of what waited for her, no longer tormented by thoughts of her wickedness.

  His name trembled on her lips and she whispered it once, then repeated it more loudly as all the tension inside her shattered. She clutched his back and felt his muscles straining to reach the same end as she. The length of her legs was pressed to his, and his mouth swallowed the sob that rose in her throat as his movements quickened. Her name, sounding infinitely precious to her when it came from this man, was the single word he uttered in the last rush of passion.

  She welcomed the weight of him, and when he would have moved from her, she shook her head and held him. “A moment longer,” she said.

  His mouth brushed hers. “I’m too heavy for you.” As a protest it lacked much in the way of conviction. It didn’t fool either of them.

  She smiled. “I don’t mind. You should be happy I’m not running from you.”

  “I am.” He braced himself on his elbows, searching her face. “I thought I had given you a permanent disgust of me. You av
oided me for days, refused to speak of what happened, and tormented me by preferring the company of Cody and Clara.”

  “I was afrai—” She broke off, frowning as she saw a smudge of soot on Brandon’s shoulder. “Brandon, where did that come from?”

  Brandon glanced where she pointed. He chuckled. “Your brand.” He moved away from her and sat up.

  “My brand? Whatever do you—” She lifted her hands and had her answer. She looked at Brandon again, and he took great delight in pointing out the path her hands had blazed across his body. There were fingerprints on his arms and on his chest and, most shocking of all, on the taut side of his buttocks. Groaning with embarrassment, she buried her face in her hands and, too late, realized the consequence of that action.

  “Now, don’t go all missish on me,” he said, grinning crookedly as he pulled her hands away and witnessed her smudged face. “Oh dear, now you really look like a chimney sweep.”

  Shannon sat up, dragging the corner of the counterpane with her. As she covered her breasts she noticed the streak of soot that followed their curve. “You might have said something,” she moaned forlornly.

  His smile softened, “I was struck dumb by your impassioned little speech, and later, well, later it hardly mattered.”

  “I don’t know how you managed to keep from laughing.” She remembered every word she had said to him, offering a face she thought he found attractive and a body she thought would please him. Her cheeks flamed with color as she realized how absurd she must have looked to him.

  “It never occurred to me,” he said seriously. He pulled at the sheet beneath him and used one corner of it to wipe her face. “You are much more to me than the physical attributes you mentioned, which, by the way, I do find very pleasing, soot or no soot.” After rubbing away the prints on her forehead, he kissed each spot and then concentrated on the smudge on her jaw. “If you think on it, you know that it’s true.”

  “Because of Aurora, you mean. Because I look like her.”