Lovestorm

by Judith E. French

  Someone did. A small sensation of joy bubbled up from deep within. Cain cared nothing for the Sommersett family or for wealth and power. He had professed his love when she was no more than a ragged castaway, a bit of flotsam washed up on the waves.

  A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she traced the curves of her lips with two fingertips, lips she had pressed so boldly against Cain’s. “Cain loves me.”

  And I love him. She breathed in deeply, letting the heady thrill wash through her trembling body. He is no more than a slave. He has nothing . . . but he has everything.

  “If I must play this twisted game of power for my father, is it too much to ask a little happiness for myself?”

  Outside the window, the wind howled around the corners of the house. Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, sat quietly, and waited.

  Bridget’s voice startled her as the Irish girl’s candlelit face appeared in the doorway. “M’lady. Lord Dunmore bids ye come to his chambers.”

  “What does he want?” Elizabeth asked.

  Bridget’s hand, holding the candlestick, wavered. “Don’t know.”

  “Tell my husband that I am indisposed, and that I will wait on him in the morning.” Elizabeth pressed her lips tightly together as she noticed the raised palm print on the maid’s face.

  “I tried, m’lady. I said ’twas yer woman’s time, but Jane made me the liar.” Bridget’s eyes were red-rimmed. “He asked Betty first, and she swore ye were bleedin’ sore.”

  Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Where is Betty?”

  “That slut Jane gave her a bloody nose. I sent her to the kitchen to clean her face and shift.”

  “Did Jane strike you?”

  Bridget shook her head. “The lord. He threatened to send me away, m’lady, if I didn’t fetch ye.”

  Elizabeth sighed and turned away. I’ll not let him bed me this night, she swore, not if it means my life.

  “Lord Dunmore said ye would make excuse. He said ye must come, or he would send his savage to carry ye like a slab of beef.”

  Edward was propped up on a daybed in his bedchamber, the remains of his late supper on a walnut gate-legged table before him. “M’lady wife,” he greeted her mockingly as he raised a glass in salute. “How kind of you to join me. Are you hungry?”

  Elizabeth glanced at the half-eaten eel pie and the large blood sausage with distaste. Bits of sugar cakes and marzipan littered Edward’s napkin; at his beringed right hand lay a gnawed ham bone with fat and gristle still clinging to it. Her gaze lingered on his hand. His fingers were puffy, like some pig’s bladder a child had blown up for sport.

  “You are ill?” she asked, keeping her voice level despite her wildly thudding heart.

  “On the contrary, my dear, I feel much better. My appetite has returned.” He indicated the decanter on the table. “Don’t just stand there like a stick. Sit down. Will you have a glass of Canary wine? It is quite good.”

  She shook her head. “You know that the physician has forbidden you any strong spirits.” From the smell of the room, her husband had indulged in more than wine. She wrinkled her nose as she caught the sour odor of urine. Edward’s chamber pot was obviously in need of emptying.

  “God’s wounds! The man is a despot, damn his greedy bowels! He knows nothing.” Edward sucked a lump of eel out of a rotting back tooth and chewed it. “I’ll not have him at me again with his leeches and his bleeding cups.” He drained the wineglass and belched.

  “You’re drunk,” Elizabeth accused, taking the offensive. Nothing would make her accept this swine as her husband, and nothing would make her reveal the fear that threatened to cause her to lose her own supper.

  “What if I am?”

  She caught the inside of her mouth between her teeth and bit down until she tasted blood. “Do you think you can summon me like some kitchen drozel?” she demanded regally. “You forget who I am.”

  His face reddened as he came to his feet, fists clenched. “And you, madame, forget who I am. I am your rightful lord. I may summon you at any hour of the day, strip you naked, and futter you in the courtyard before all the servants, if it please me.”

  “You are welcome to try.”

  “Bitch!”

  Elizabeth allowed herself a faint smile. “Your futtering seems less effective than it once was, m’lord. Before you attempt to degrade me, be certain that you can complete the performance.”

  Edward shrieked with fury, ripped the wig from his head, and flung the empty wineglass at her face. It missed by three feet.

  She laughed.

  “I’ll lock you away,” he threatened. “I’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing to me. Have you forgotten that I am Sommersett’s favorite child? My father holds a letter from me, to be opened in case of my disappearance or death. In that letter, m’lord Dunmore, I accuse you of being unable to fulfill a husband’s duties and of threatening my life.”

  Purple veins stood out on Edward’s new-shaven head, and his eyes bulged from their sockets. “You lying slut! You’re mad as a March hare. I’ll have you confined in Bedlam.”

  “You’re not the first to suggest such a solution, but—” Cursing, he lunged toward her. She seized a two-pronged fork from his table and held it before her. “Threaten me at your own risk,” she warned. “I know more of your affairs than you realize. It was not fate that made you earl, but human intervention.”

  Edward’s face went slack and paled to the color of lard. Grasping his throat, he fell back against the bedpost and clung to it for support. “What . . . what do you mean?” he squeaked.

  She let the hand holding the fork fall to her waist. Her gaze met his, and she read the naked truth in his eyes. He’s guilty. He killed them both. “I am Lady Dunmore,” she said smoothly. “Whatever touches your honor touches mine. I would not be permitted to bring witness against you in court if I wished. Isn’t it better for us to live separately in peace?”

  He sagged onto the bed. “What are you saying? I have done nothing.”

  “Nothing, m’lord?” She smiled slyly. “Of course not. Unless . . .” She hesitated, then forced herself to cross to the table and pour herself a glass of the Canary wine. She took a sip, then turned back toward her husband. “My father knows the truth.”

  His chin quivered. “What truth?”

  Elizabeth sighed and nibbled a slice of cheese. “It is enough that you are Lord Dunmore. You need have no fear. Your secret is safe with me.” She yawned daintily and covered her mouth with her palm. “I had no wish to be married to the second son of an earl. I am accustomed to better things.”

  Edward licked his lips. “I could kill you as easily.”

  “I think not,” she replied. “It is to your advantage and mine for us to remain good friends. I will interfere with nothing in your life if you will give me the same respect. I will choose my own servants and come and go as I please.”

  “And my rights as your husband?”

  “Naturally,” she continued, “friends need not share a bed. Take a mistress and put it about that I am barren. It should gain you a measure of sympathy among your friends.”

  “While you make a dung heap of my family honor?”

  “I have no interest in fleshly pleasures,” she lied. “Leave me to my innocent pursuits and I will behave in all ways befitting a modest matron.”

  “You dare to try and blackmail me into such an agreement?”

  “Not blackmail, m’lord. I would never stoop to such disgusting behavior.” She spread her hands prettily before him. “But I am, after all, a Sommersett. We are known for bargaining, are we not?”

  “I admit nothing.”

  She raised her chin a notch. “And I accuse you of nothing.”

  “So be it, woman,” he rasped. “But if you swell with another man’s child, I’ll drown it like a stray bitch’s whelp. And if you shame me—by word or deed—I’ll have you poisoned. Sommersett be damned!”

  “Agreed.” Elizabeth dipped into a graceful
curtsy. “Good night, m’lord. Sleep well, and do mind your health. For if you die, your title will pass to another, and I’ll no longer be Lady Dunmore, but simply another marriageable daughter for my father’s house.”

  She was halfway to her own chambers before she let the tears slide down her cheeks.

  Elizabeth would have sworn that she never slept, yet suddenly he was standing beside her bed. She put out her hand to touch him, fearful that Cain would dissolve as all her dreams of him had done before.

  “N’tschutti,” he whispered huskily. “Dear, beloved one.” He caught her hand in his, and she felt his warm reality.

  “Is it you?” She blinked back tears of joy, afraid to hope that it was so. “Are you here, or are you a dream?”

  “You be the vision, Eliz-a-beth.” Flickering firelight played across his chiseled features as he pulled aside the covers and stared down at her unclothed body with smoldering eyes. “My vision, that I am come so far to possess.”

  She trembled, not knowing if it was from the damp night air or the intensity of his penetrating gaze. “I’m cold,” she murmured, holding up her arms to him. “Warm me.”

  Her pulse quickened as Cain stripped away his servant’s jacket and breeches. He jerked at the ribbon behind his neck, and his dark hair fell free to cascade around his shoulders. “I will warm you, nihounshan,” he promised, leaning over her to press a lingering kiss against her willing lips.

  Icy rain pattered against the diamond-shaped windowpanes as he removed his leather shoes and knit stockings. Elizabeth moistened her lips and drew in a long, shuddering breath while a warm, heavy-limbed aching seeped through her.

  “You smell like mint,” she murmured.

  He chuckled deep in his throat. “And wet wool and tree bark. This one must climb tree to reach your window. Is not easy to climb tree in English shoes.”

  Outside, an oak branch scraped against the window, and Elizabeth’s eyes widened in fear. “What’s that?”

  “Shhh,” he soothed, sliding in beside her and taking her in his arms. “Be not afraid of the storm, Eliz-a-beth. The storm is our friend.”

  She moaned with pleasure as he pulled her against him and wrapped his arms and legs around her. “Cain . . . oh, Cain. I wish I’d never come back to England. I’ve wanted you . . . needed you so.”

  “Shhh, I am here.” His mouth felt hers, and he took her lower lip between his and sucked gently.

  “Ohhh.” She sighed as a fluttering sensation began in the pit of her stomach and curled upward. Her nipples hardened to erect peaks as they brushed against the satin-smooth surface of his chest, and the warm sweetness between her thighs intensified.

  Cain’s tongue touched hers, and she opened like a spring blossom to his kiss. His mouth was as soft as velvet and sweeter than honey.

  “K’daholel,” he whispered, trailing hot, wet kisses down her throat. “I love you.” His hand cupped a love-swollen breast. “Sweet wife.”

  The burning in her loins became a throbbing, incandescent heat, and she groaned in ecstasy, thrusting her hips closer to his, pulling his seeking mouth down to kiss and lick her aching nipples. “Cain . . . Cain.” Her voice was low and throaty. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me like this . . . to touch me.”

  “This one has wanted you, my Eliz-a-beth, longer than you can know.”

  His cheek was smooth against her naked breast, his breath warm and moist as he stroked her belly and let his strong, lean hands explore her rounded hips and the nest of curls between her thighs.

  “Tell me that we do no wrong,” she pleaded with him as the insistent hunger grew within her. “You are my true husband, aren’t you, Cain?”

  He answered with a searing kiss, pushing her urgently back among the heaped feather pillows and covering her with his hard, muscular body. All conscious thoughts slipped from her mind as Cain lowered his weight onto her trembling form, and she felt the force of his pulsating shaft against her bare thigh.

  “Touch me, Eliz-a-beth,” he urged. His hair brushed across her cheek, and he claimed her eager mouth with fiery, consuming kisses until her head whirled.

  Unable to refuse him, she closed her shaking hand around the source of his arousal. His loins tightened, and he groaned as her fingers caressed the tumescent length of his impassioned manhood.

  “I want you,” she cried. “Love me.”

  “Eliz-a-beth.” His eyes reflected the flames dancing on the hearth, and she was drawn into those flames.

  “Please.” She writhed beneath him. Her skin burned where it pressed against his; her breath came in heaving sobs. “Cain,” she moaned. The aching in her blood had become a fierce wanting, a desire that must be fulfilled or she would die.

  He entered her slowly, tenderly, with agonizingly provocative thrusts, letting the swollen tip of his engorged rod caress and tease her willing flesh as she strained against him, intent on release. The brief flash of pain was gone before she could do more than gasp, and then the ancient rhythm seized them and hurled them together toward a mutual, soul-shattering rapture.

  Waves of joy washed over Elizabeth as she lay in the safety of his arms and wept bittersweet tears. “Darling . . . darling,” she murmured. “My darling husband.”

  He kissed her hair, winding the love-dampened tendrils around his fingers and tasting them with the tip of his tongue. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, and her chin.

  “Did I please you?” she asked shyly, when the tears ceased to flow. “I never—”

  He chuckled softly. “You learn quickly for an English equiwa.”

  She smiled up at him and tugged sharply at a lock of his hair. “And how many Englishwomen have you instructed in the arts of love?”

  “Aiiee.” He groaned in mock pain. “Only one.”

  “Good. For I am a jealous nahanuun.”

  Cain laughed. “Your Lenape is very bad.”

  “I am not your nahanuun?”

  “You be my nihounshan, my wife. Nahanuun is the masked animal who washes his food before he eats—the raccoon.”

  She giggled, content in the circle of his arms. “If my Lenape is bad, it is your fault. All I know I learned from you, husband.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her full on the lips. “That is tuun,” he said solemnly. “Mouth.” He touched the tip of her chin. “And this be uiitshe.”

  She caught his hand in hers and guided it to her breast. “And what is this called?”

  “Nunukuun.” He brushed his lips against her nipple and Elizabeth squirmed with delight.

  “Show me more,” she urged.

  His hand slipped lower to rest on her stomach. “Uoote,” he said.

  “And this?” She brushed his swelling manhood with her fingertips.

  “Oslahiila.”

  “Liar,” she accused. “Oslahiila is lightning.”

  He chuckled. “You know more than you pretend, woman. Perhaps it is not. Perhaps it be assuun hittuuk.”

  “Stone tree?” She giggled. “I think not.”

  “This one thinks you have enough of word lesson and not enough lesson to make husband’s blood run hot.”

  He buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, and she ran her fingers through his long, dark hair. She moved against him, feeling the warm, sweet sensations begin again. “If you could just show me once more,” she teased, “then perhaps I might—”

  “A man must be made of stone to satisfy you,” he whispered. “But let it not be said a warrior of the munsee clan did not give his best.”

  Desire kindled once more as they whispered words of love to each other and touched and kissed. This time, Elizabeth felt no pain when they came together. Instead, there was a lingering rapture that filled her heart with happiness.

  “I love you,” she told him when they lay exhausted from their repeated lovemaking. “I love you more than I have ever loved anyone.”

  “Did this one not tell you,” he replied lazily. “On the shores of the
great salt sea, I promised you would come to me by your own will.”

  She sealed his lips with a gentle kiss. “An English gentleman would never remind a lady of her error.”

  He nibbled at her fingers. “A savage shows no mercy.”

  She laughed and curled against him. “If only we could stay like this forever,” she murmured sleepily. Suddenly she sat up and thumped his shoulder. “How did you get into my chamber?”

  “I tell you. I come by window.”

  “But there are bars on the window. Some relative of Edward’s was crazy, and they locked her away in these rooms. Are you a ghost that you can come through iron bars?”

  “Did the bars protect this woman who was sick in the head?”

  “No. Bridget said she jumped from another window to her death.”

  “Hmmph. Iron can not hold back flesh. Flesh is stronger.” He pushed back the blankets and rose from the bed to stand before the fire. He held his broad hands out to the heat and turned to smile at her. “For many nights I come to your window,” he explained. “With my knife, I cut at the wood beneath the iron. Now these bars come and go as easily as an arrow comes from my quiver.”

  “You were there—at my window? Many nights? But I never heard—”

  He nodded. “Good. This one was afraid the English make him clumsy. I go now, but I will come again.”

  In an instant she was beside him, clinging to him with all her strength. “Don’t go,” she begged him. “Don’t leave me. God only knows when we can be together again.”

  He kissed her once more, then pushed her firmly away and began to dress. “There is danger to you if this one stay too long. Let not your heart be sad. I will find a way, Eliz-a-beth. I will take you home to my own land, and we will not be apart again.”

  “If only we could,” she whispered. “But it’s not possible. You, perhaps . . . you alone. There might be a way to send you back to the Colonies.”

  “I do not go alone,” he said. “A Lenni-Lenape does not desert his wife.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Then our love is doomed.”