The third dance was the Rounding.
Intimacy.
Rachel would have known what it depicted even if she hadn’t been told. The dancers moved with a new energy, a new passion. There was a general pairing, a subtle shift that melded each man and woman into a single unit.
Except for Rachel.
She continued to move to the pulsating beat of the drums, the rattling gourds, but her attention was not on another dancer.
She only had eyes for Logan.
He stood, as immovable as before, but she could feel the music flow between them in an invisible stream. An indestructible stream. Rachel swayed, her body undulating, stepping back and forth, as the crescendo built.
She danced for him.
Never before had she been more aware of herself as a woman. Of him as a man. Hair brushed her shoulders, swirling about her body and the sensation was enticing. Her flesh quivered and her breasts swelled. Rachel wet her suddenly dry lips and could taste him.
And deep within her an ache began, built as steadily as the tempo of the music.
She had flirted before, but never seduced.
Now she practiced that beguiling allure as if she were created for it. As if the Sirens had taken control of her body. From the heart, the Adawehis said, and she complied.
She teased, she tantalized, she enticed. And through it all, the force of her desire escalated.
A sheen of perspiration covered her skin and still she danced, faster and faster as the pounding soared. The pace was nearly frenzied now as she swayed toward him, imagined he swayed toward her.
And then it was over, ending abruptly as the drummers ceased their beating and the dancers their movements.
She’d imagined his movement toward her before. But not this time. With masculine grace he pushed away from the pole and strode toward her. Rachel could barely breathe as he reached for her, his long fingers encircling her wrist.
He said nothing, but then the time for talking was past. And they both knew it. She followed without a backward glance as he led her toward the cabin.
Chapter Ten
“Take heed lest passions sway
The judgement to do aught, which else free will
Would not admit.”
— Milton
Paradise Lost
His mouth covered hers before the door slammed shut.
Rachel thought she knew passion before but that was a poor substitute for the fire exploding through her now. Her hands shot around his neck, tangled with his hair, clutching compulsively. She couldn’t stop trembling. It was as if her body suddenly grew too large for her skin and wanted out.
Wanted.
And oh, her skin. It burned and shivered at the same time.
“Rachel.” He tore his lips from hers only long enough to breathe her name and then he was back, marauding, devouring, filling her with his tongue. His hands bracketed her face, holding her still for his onslaught. Deeper and deeper he plunged as the maelstrom in his blood pounded, flattening her against the door with the power of his body.
She couldn’t stop squirming, rubbing herself along the length of him. Her breasts filled, stimulated by the feel of his hard chest. And deep within her an ache grew, blossoming outward till her entire body throbbed.
When his hands pressed down over her collarbone, she moaned. When they blazed lower, kneading her flesh, her knees folded. If not for the rough door behind and the power of his body she would have fallen to the floor.
And then he was yanking the deerskin dress up and over her head, tossing it aside with a flick of his strong wrist. Except for the jewels at her neck she stood naked before him, naked and unashamed, her body glowing in the soft, rosy glow of the logs in the hearth.
It struck Rachel suddenly that she had fed the fire before leaving the cabin and that she was glad. Without the light it offered she wouldn’t have seen the smoldering appreciation as his eyes skimmed down her. Her flesh burned wherever he looked, wherever his gaze lingered. She seemed to pout toward him, her nipples puckered, her womanhood dewy with desire.
She expected him to touch her then, to skim his long fingers down her. She craved it with an intensity that frightened her. But it was not his hands but his moist mouth that forged a path of fire.
Rachel called out when he suckled the pebbly tip of her breast. Her fingers clawed into his muscled shoulders, finding the opening in his shirt, seeking the hot, slick skin beneath.
She could barely breathe, air coming in ragged gasps, as he attacked her other nipple, nipping and sucking, swirling his tongue over the straining tip. Rachel hadn’t known there was such pleasure on earth; didn’t think anything could surpass it. But then his mouth inched aggressively lower.
His stubble-roughened chin abraded the creamy flesh of her stomach, and she quivered. When he dropped to his knees in front of her she pressed back, some dark recess of her brain realizing what he was about. But though the splintery wood was hard against her back she could not escape him.
And from the moment his tongue, wet and insistent, probed the secrets of her womanhood she had no desire to.
His strong hands clasped her thighs, supporting her, spreading her wide for his invasion.
He probed.
He plundered.
Attacking her with no mercy.
Rachel’s fingers thrust into his hair, gripping the back of his head and holding him to her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel. The sensations so strong, so overpowering, it seemed she would die.
A pounding drummed through her head, beating louder and louder till she could no longer bear it. And still his tongue ravished.
“Logan!” His name escaped her lips on a scream as the whole of her seemed to shatter into a thousand shiny pieces. She soared, sailing above the confines of earth, to float in heavenly ecstasy.
For one brief moment lucid thought struggled to control her mind and she wondered if this was the way back, the trip of spiraling colors and dazzling light she’d longed to take. Was she on her way home, back to the place of angels or the palace in London? And why did the possibility hold such little appeal?
But when she opened her eyes it was Logan that she saw. His eyes that bore into her. He bent down, swooping her into his arms, holding her high against his chest. Her head fell against his shoulder and the thumping of his heart vibrated through her.
And then he was lowering her to the mat and his gaze was searing her flesh and she reached for him and the wild abandon clutched her again.
Logan hesitated long enough to yank off his shirt and leggings. But even those simple tasks were interrupted by the need to touch her, to see her eyes flash with desire when he did. She tore at his loincloth, as eager as he for their joining.
He knelt above her, his muscles bunched, his desire bold.
“I’m on fire for you.” Logan growled the words against her neck, as he lowered his body, settling into the cradle of hers.
His kiss was savage, complete in its ravishment of her mouth, and her passion equaled his. He slanted his head, devouring her, his tongue thrusting, hers countering.
He had never wanted a woman as he did her. From the moment he first saw her, the need to possess her had grown. Each attempt to fight the attraction seemed to make him want her more. When she’d danced for him, her sensual movements fanned the flames till he feared he would leap among the dancers and take her right there.
“Open for me.”
His manhood pulsed against her stomach, near ready to explode. Her legs shifted and he slid down and thrust.
The cry of pain surprised him. He’d given no thought at all to her innocence.
But he was already buried deep inside, the barrier of her maidenhead, no barrier at all. Logan tried not to move, straining against the urge that he thought might surely kill him. Beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip and his heart pounded painfully against his ribs. But he remained still, waiting for her to grow used to him. Waiting for the fever of desire to swe
ep over her again.
When she started to writhe beneath him, he lost what little composure he had. Logan’s body jerked, pulling out only to thrust back in, farther, deeper. She raised her knees, opening for him, sending him along a frenzied path toward fulfillment.
She cried out again, clutching him, her limbs quivering, as he exploded, sending his seed shooting into her womb.
He collapsed, burying his face in a tangle of golden curls. Reality, that seemed so distant moments before, now came thundering back with unerring accuracy. Logan lifted his head, staring at her with narrowed eyes. She looked totally debauched, her lips red and swollen from his kisses, her cheeks rosy. He couldn’t help brushing her mouth with his.
She was staring at him as if she didn’t understand what had happened and Logan wished he could explain it to her. Instead he levered himself off and rolled to the side, gathering her into his arms as he did. The morning would be soon enough for questions.
At least that was his opinion.
~ ~ ~
Her heart was filled with him.
Rachel shut her eyes, breathing in his smell and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel what he felt, knew what he knew. The power consumed her, freed her. Made her strong.
He thought of her. Of her beauty and sensual delights. Of how much he’d desired her... and still did. A smile tugged at her lips and she snuggled closer.
And then he thought of Mary.
Rachel’s eyes popped open and she would have sat up if not for the imprisoning arm crossing beneath her breasts. She took a deep breath and tried to put aside her foolish jealousies. But she couldn’t. She knew it was not a time for questions, for accusations, but her tongue seemed bent upon both.
“Who is Mary?” The words were from her mouth before she could stop them. She felt him stiffen. And lost the power to be one with him.
“How do you know of Mary?”
“I don’t know, which is why I’m asking.”
“She’s my wife... was my wife.”
A chill swept over her that had naught to do with her naked state. “What happened to her?”
She knew before he answered. She remembered and she knew. Yet she listened as he told her, his voice flat, of the Indian raid that left her dead.
“There was a child, a girl, newborn who died with her,” he said. “My child, though I never saw her.”
“The Indians who killed her. Were they...?”
“The Cherokee?” Logan let out his breath. “Aye. It was during the wars. I blamed them at one time.” He shook his head. “But no more. Their grievances were many.”
“Against your wife?” They were sitting now, Logan toward the foot of the mat, his back to her. Rachel couldn’t remember exactly when he moved from her but she missed the feel of him.
“Nay, not Mary. She never hurt a soul. It was not in her nature. But those who attacked didn’t know that, didn’t know her. Not like I did.”
His feelings were filtering through to her again, a jumbled quandary of guilt and sorrow. He speared ten fingers back through his hair and, pulling up a blanket, lay back down, urging her to do the same. But he didn’t settle her in his embrace.
And he didn’t stop thinking of his dead wife.
Rachel didn’t wish to know his thoughts, his grief. Yet now that she had turned on the meeting of their hearts she seemed unable to turn it off. He lay awake for a long time, as did she. Rachel’s only consolations came when he finally slept.
He dreamed of her.
~ ~ ~
He was sitting on the bench, staring at her, when Rachel awoke. He was dressed, hair combed back and tied and there seemed to be a wall about him. A wall she couldn’t penetrate. She concentrated upon opening her heart to him, but nothing happened. Rachel pulled the blanket to her chin. “What is it? What is wrong?” She glanced about. “Is it Ostenaco?”
“Nay.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I said last night that we had to talk.”
“Yes, you did.” She wished he would open to her. That there was some way to know what he was thinking. But she couldn’t even seem to concentrate on what he said. “I beg your pardon.”
“’Tis I who am begging yours.”
He lowered his eyes, the shadow of dark lashes fanning across his cheek, and Rachel wanted to go to him... to have him come to her. “I don’t understand.”
“Last night.” He looked up and she had a glimpse of his torment. “I was wrong to seduce you.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I thought it was more the other way around.”
He didn’t seem to find her words amusing. From his expression she’d have thought him a prude. Memories of the night before proved otherwise.
“As I was saying, it was wrong of me. You were an innocent... are an innocent, and I—”
“Was Mary a virgin when you married her?” She didn’t want to know, not really. She didn’t want him to think about his dead wife again. Yet the question blurted from her mouth, leaving him staring at her in amazement. Rachel imagined him awake before dawn, dressing quickly, even shaving. Then sitting on that bench and planning what he would say to her. It was obvious he didn’t expect or want remarks from her.
He was on his feet pacing the area in front of the hearth. Careful not to come near her. Blocking her out.
Shut out was not where she wanted to be. Swallowing, her hand trembling, Rachel pushed aside the blanket. She was on her feet and nearly upon him before he realized what she was about. The stricken expression on his face was amusing, but Rachel didn’t laugh.
She did nothing until she stood before him. Her breasts puckered, whether from the sudden chill or memories of what he did to them last night, she wasn’t sure. “Was she, Logan?”
“Rachel, I...” His voice was husky and Logan started again. “You don’t realize what you’re doing.”
“But I do.” She stepped closer as if to prove it. Her nipples nearly grazed the front of his linen shirt. A muscle jumped in his cheek and she longed to run her fingers along the curve of his jaw.
“Rachel.” The word was a plea.
“Tell me, Logan.”
“Hell, yes, she was a virgin. Mary was a kind, sweet woman.”
“Who would never do what I’m doing now.” Her resolve began to crumble, but she kept her shoulders back, her chin high. He didn’t have to answer her. No one else would be as shameless as she. Certainly not the saintly Mary. As quickly as that thought entered her head she felt contrite. It was not Mary’s fault that she was good, or that Rachel was showing herself to be shameless.
Unable to continue her charade of nerves any longer, she turned. Would have walked away if not for the hand on her shoulder. She trembled at his touch.
“You must be sore.” His words were gentle but fraught with tension.
Her hair hung down her back and it covered his hand when she looked over her shoulder. Her eyes met his and held while the earth seemed to stand still. Then slowly she shook her head.
His breath left him in a rush as he pulled her back into his arms. Rachel closed her eyes, overcome with how wonderful it felt to crack through the wall, if only for a short time. His desire flowed through her, igniting her own.
He held her tightly, pressing kisses to her forehead, nudging the spiraling curls at her hairline aside with his chin. His mouth slid down to her ear and he nipped her lobe before dampening it with his tongue.
“Are you sure?” His words sent chills up her spine. The feel of his hand as it slipped down to cover her mound set her afire.
His fingers curled and Rachel bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“I want you.” His voice was a raspy whisper. “But I was not gentle last night.” His hand stilled as she arched her hips forward. She saw the cords in his neck tighten as he swallowed. “I can wait,” he finally said.
“Perhaps.” Rachel wet her dry lips. “But I cannot.” Slowly she spread her thighs, angling her body toward him, leaning her head back so she could see
the desire burning in his green eyes.
He ran his mouth down the curve of her neck, tasting, closing his teeth gently over her skin. Her breasts were full, the nipples swollen, so sensitive to his touch that she jerked forward, the movement sending his fingers deeper into the slick, wet secrets of her body.
She whimpered. The nearness of him was intoxicating and overwhelming and she couldn’t seem to get enough of it. It was Rachel who led them back to the sleeping mat. Rachel who lifted the loose-fitting shirt over his head, who fumbled with the ties of his loincloth.
They knelt down together, the proof of his desire huge and throbbing between them. The kiss they shared was openmouthed and carnal. Rachel sighed as he covered her, drawing up her legs, wrapping them instinctively about his narrow hips.
He entered her slowly, inch by sensual inch. Hard, satin-sleeved silk sliding into her body. The pleasure was so intense Rachel didn’t think she could bear it. When he was completely buried he let out his breath on a groan before pulling out again. His pace was excruciating. It was exquisite.
Rachel writhed, her head turning from side to side, her legs urging him on.
“Slowly, Rachel.” His whisper rasped in her ear. “We shall take it slowly this day.”
But the toll was too great and the next time she bucked, bringing her hips off the mat, her body shattering around him, Logan lost his own control.
Rachel tried to stay awake, to connect with his feelings. But they mirrored her own so closely she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. And she was tired. Falling asleep in his arms seemed the most natural thing to do.
When she woke he was gone.
The scent of him lingered, on the sleeping mat, on her body. Rachel stretched, lifting her arms high above her head, feeling the twinges of discomfort where their bodies had joined. He was right about that then. No doubt he’d ask her again and she would be forced to tell the truth. Which would mean no—
Rachel sat up so quickly she felt light-headed. What was she doing, lying here, indulging in sensual memories and fantasies? She was here to save his life, not to satisfy his sexual whims. Forcing herself to be honest Rachel admitted it was more her own desires she had to bridle.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 15
