Nightfall

by Anne Stuart

  He knelt on the bed beside her, pressing his face against the fragrant hollow of her shoulder. She put her hands up and held him there, comforting him when he deserved no comfort, giving herself to him when he deserved no gifts.

  He shuddered, the pain rippling through his body, and her hands were smooth and cool as they soothed him. He could taste the heat of her tears, and he wanted to make her laugh. He wanted her in sunlight, in joy. But there were only shadows and sorrow left in his life.

  He was so tight with desire that he was afraid to touch her. He tried to hold himself very still, to calm the raging need that swept over his body. He’d played it all so carefully up till now; he couldn’t afford to make a mistake at this point. She was his, she would do what he needed her to do, and she wouldn’t fight. He just needed a moment or two to . . .

  She touched him. Her hand against the open zipper of his jeans, long fingers sliding inside, encircling him. He jerked, pulling away from her, out of reach. Crossing the room and standing by the moonlit window.

  “Give me a minute,” he said in a harsh voice.

  “No.” It was simply spoken, enough to make him turn his head and stare at her. She looked like a pagan goddess, a wanton angel, with her fiery cloud of hair, her pale, voluptuous skin, her calm expression.

  He struggled fiercely for his distance, for his cold, protecting humor. “No?” he echoed. “I would have thought I made you come enough to keep you satisfied for at least fifteen minutes.”

  It didn’t work. She climbed off the bed, moving toward him, gracefully unself-conscious. “You know me very well,” she said, moving in and out of the moon shadow as she approached him, and she looked predatory, magnificent in the silvery light. Far removed from the little girl he’d married, he reminded himself, deliberately, trying to squash the raging lust that rippled through his body.

  Even the memory of his dead wife couldn’t affect him. He stood and watched as Cassidy approached him, and for the first time he understood the need to run.

  She came up to him, and he could smell her skin, the fragrant scent of perfume, mixed with the headier smell of fresh daffodils on the air. And the scent of her arousal. “But you haven’t realized,” she continued calmly, “that I’m beginning to know you. You’ve spent the last few weeks trying to frighten me. And I only just realized that I frighten you as well.”

  He just managed a cynical smile, as his heart was pounding in his chest. “Are you going to take a knife to me, Cassie?” he murmured.

  “No,” she said. She sank to her knees in front of him, like a penitent, her hair like a veil around her shoulders, and her cool, deft hands released him from his unzipped jeans. He was full and throbbing in her hands, and she was trembling slightly, despite the sureness in her movements. “Something far more dangerous,” she said, and she put her mouth on him.

  He reached down and threaded his fingers through her tangled hair, meaning to pull her away, but instead he held her closer, imprisoning her, though she had no wish to escape.

  He didn’t want to do this. He wanted to own her, take her, enslave her. But he was beyond control, as much her slave as she was his, and he pushed into her mouth, unable to help himself, knowing only the darkness and the warm, seeking wetness of her.

  This was no faceless solace. This was Cassie, with the beautiful smile and the wary eyes, with the compassionate soul and a fierce maternal instinct that could battle the world and win. This was the woman he needed, this was the woman he loved . . .

  He tried to pull away, before it was too late, but she refused to let him go, her hands digging into his hips, her mouth inexorable, inexperienced, and quite the most erotic experience he had ever had in his entire life. And then there was no longer any alternative, as he thrust into her mouth, and gave her what he had never given another woman.

  He knew, without asking, that it was something she had never done before. And something she would never do for another man. She took him, and everything he had to give her, without a murmur, and when he was finished he sank to the floor beside her, pulling her into his arms.

  She was hot, she was trembling, and her arms slid around his waist as she buried her face against his shoulder. She had won, but she had lost as well. He belonged to her now, but that only made her bonds tighter. He wondered if she realized it.

  She started to pull away, and he let her go, hoping he’d manage to disguise his reluctance. In the moonlight her face was pale, with a flush of color on her cheekbones. She wasn’t used to being a wanton. It was very becoming.

  “The bathroom’s in there,” he said, rising, taking her hand and pulling her upright. It was a good thing she was suddenly shy. If she looked down, she’d see that he was getting hard again, already. He should be used to it. Her presence had induced an advanced case of satyriasis in him that he’d been unable to combat.

  “Thank you,” she murmured in an absurdly polite little voice, moving past him toward the door. He controlled his urge to touch her.

  “You’re welcome,” he said wryly, just as polite. The door closed behind her, and he wondered idly whether she was going to throw up. He didn’t think so.

  SHE DIDN’T LIKE to drink—he remembered that. She got drunk easily, and the notion of the things he could do to her in bed if she were a little bit sloshed was undeniably appealing. He zipped his jeans, with difficulty, and went back downstairs to pour himself a drink. And to wait until she was brave enough to emerge from the bathroom, like a bride on her honeymoon.

  For a brief, sour moment he remembered his own wedding night, and he forced himself to probe that memory, like an old wound. Why hadn’t he read the obvious signs? How naive could he, a self-proclaimed cynic, have been?

  But that was years ago, when he believed in the power of love. Of one man, one woman, bonding, passion and eternity. That, and the sacred, unshakable innocence of children.

  He no longer believed in love. In bonding, in passion or eternity. But he still believed in the resilience of children.

  Things weren’t going exactly as he had planned, and he had to accept that fact with as good grace as he could muster. He cared too much for her. He needed her too much. She sneaked beneath his defenses even as he tried to shatter hers.

  It didn’t matter. Whether it made it harder or easier for him, in the long run it would make no difference. The bonds were there, spider web fine but infinitely strong, and growing stronger all the time. By the time he returned to jail, the children would be safely ensconced with Cassie. Even Sean’s impending death would work to his advantage. There would be nothing to call Cassie back to her life in the States.

  He carried the glasses back upstairs and set them on the table by the bed. She was still in the bathroom, and he wondered idly what she was doing. She’d come out sooner or later. And he was more than ready for her.

  He stripped off his jeans and kicked them away, then stretched out on the pristine double bed. He pulled the white sheet up around his middle, more to preserve Cassidy’s sudden shyness than as any protection from the cool night air flooding in the open window. He took a shallow, meditative sip of his whiskey and water. And waited for Cassidy.

  SHE WAS AFRAID to leave the bathroom. She’d spent as much time as she possibly could, washing her face and stealing his toothbrush to brush her teeth. She’d considered taking a shower, and then thought better of it. He might very well join her in there.

  She was afraid. Not of him this time. Or at least, not much. She was afraid of her reaction to him. Of the fever that was running through her body, one that was bordering on sickness, bordering on madness. Her body burned and shook for his. And she was afraid to see him until she could regain some tiny portion of self-control. Some tiny piece of Cassidy Roarke that didn’t belong, blood and bone, to Richard Tiernan.

  It was a losing battle. She knew that. She could see her reflection in the mirr
or over the sink. She looked like an Irish witch. She looked like a woman in need. She looked like a woman hopelessly, wrongly in love. And it was a waste of time and energy to fight it. Especially since time was at a premium.

  The room was darker when she opened the door, the moon having moved farther across the sky. He was lying in the bed, waiting for her, watching for her, and it was just as well his expression was shrouded in the shadows. It meant hers was as well.

  It took all her self-control not to scamper across the room and dive beneath the sheets. She was self-conscious about her body, and without his hands on her she felt awkward, overgrown. The man had actually carried her up the stairs, and he hadn’t even been breathing hard. Well, he had been breathing hard, but it wasn’t because of her weight.

  She forced herself to cross the room slowly, to slide beneath the sheet next to him, trying to be casual about it. Of course it didn’t work.

  “You’re still nervous,” he said, a statement more than a question, and she could hear the amused disbelief in his voice.

  “Of course not,” she said in a damnably shaky voice. The pillows were piled high behind them, and she’d pulled the sheet up to her shoulders. If he just gave her a little time, she’d probably calm down, she told herself. After all, they’d already done more sexual variations than she’d indulged in during her entire, admittedly limited, sexual history. Her affairs had been few, short-lived, and relatively unsatisfying, and they’d never gotten past the most basic of positions.

  If she’d survived this much, the rest should be fairly straightforward. In a bed, him on top, just like the few other occasions when she’d tried unsuccessfully to fall in love.

  And pigs could fly.

  He held out a tall glass filled with amber liquid and ice, and she took it, reluctantly, accepting the need for Dutch courage.

  She took a deep gulp, and she was lost.

  “Coke?” she whispered in awe and delight. “Diet Coke? I thought it was whiskey.”

  “Only the best for you, Cassie love,” he said lightly, putting his own half-empty glass of Scotch beside the bed. “I know you don’t like to drink.”

  “You haven’t let that stop you before. I thought you’d want me drunk and pliant.”

  “Oh, no,” he murmured. “I want you wide awake and very observant.”

  Cassidy swallowed nervously. “Maybe you’d better give me some of your whiskey.”

  He touched her face, his fingers long and smooth and delicious against her skin. She looked into his eyes, the unfathomable darkness of them, and she could see her own reflected in them. And then she could see nothing at all, as he blocked out the light and his mouth covered hers.

  The tang of whiskey was sharp and cool on his tongue as it sought hers. She made a faint, whimpering sound as she slid down beneath him, and the pristine white sheet was swept away from them both, leaving them naked in the moonlight, amid the scent of spring flowers.

  He moved over her, covering her with his large, strong body, and she was so caught up in the sweeping pleasure of his tongue in her mouth that she was scarcely aware that he was lying between her legs.

  His mouth left hers, and his deep thrust took her by surprise. She made a startled noise, clutching his shoulders, but she was wet and ready for him. He pushed all the way, then sank his head against hers, his breathing deep and rasping, as she tried to accustom herself to his size, his presence, his unexpectedly sudden invasion.

  After a moment he lifted his head, and his faint smile and glittering eyes were as triumphant and possessive as his body. “I didn’t want to give you a chance to change your mind.”

  “And if I did?”

  “Too late.” He withdrew, just slightly, then thrust deep again, and she couldn’t control her tiny sound of dismay.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No,” she said, a lie. Then, “Yes. A little. I’m not used to . . .”

  “Men? Or me?”

  “Both,” she whispered, wishing the darkness covered them, wishing he couldn’t see her face.

  “Don’t fight it, Cassidy,” he said. “Don’t fight me.” And the next thrust was powerful, demanding, as his long fingers caught her thighs and pulled them around him, bringing him deeper still.

  She wondered if this was another test. One she would fail. What did he want from her? And did it really matter?

  She wrapped her arms around him. His skin was hot and slick, and she could feel the tension in his hard frame. For the first time she realized the effect she was having on him, and it soothed her initial panic.

  The first wave hit her with the force of an electric shock. She hadn’t been expecting it, and her body convulsed beneath his with short, sharp tremors that seemed to draw the very life out of her. She couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t want to, as her body seemed to take on a life of its own, trembling and shaking and dissolving, colors and blinding light blurring before her eyes as she gave herself up to it, and tried to pull him along with her.

  But he was having none of it. When her tremors finally began to fade he pulled away from her, and she found herself bracing for him to plunge inside her again.

  But instead he pulled out completely, and she clutched for him, panicked. “No,” she gasped. “Don’t leave me.”

  The room was darker now, the moon had set. His hands on her body were sure and strong, and his voice came out of the darkness. “This way,” he said, turning her over on her stomach and lifting her high on her knees.

  She didn’t object. She was beyond second thoughts or self-consciousness. For the first time in her life, she had given herself over completely, and he could do anything he wanted with her. She buried her face in the cool white sheets, feeling his hands on her thighs, positioning her, coming up behind her, pushing into her, deep and sure and powerful, and her hands clutched the mattress as she wept, soft, mindless cries of pleasure and despair, of pleading and surrender, of total, eternal acceptance.

  There was no tenderness now, and she didn’t want any. The bed shook beneath them, her body shook with the force of his thrusts, and she reveled in it, terrified and renewed at the same time. His hands slid from her hips, up her back, and she met each thrust with eagerness, ready for him, ready for oblivion.

  He leaned over, his body wrapped around hers, his arms holding her tight. One hand slid between her legs to touch her. The other to her mouth, his fingers sliding inside, taking her that way as well.

  It was enough, it was more than enough. She shattered, into a thousand pieces, as his mouth sank down on her shoulder, biting hard, and his body filled hers, pulsing deeply, filling her with everything that was his. Life and death, commitment and final abandonment. Giving and taking, and none of it mattered, as she dissolved, into the night, into his arms, losing the very last of herself in the sweep of darkness and the pulse of life.

  There was gentleness in him after all. His hands were tender as they settled her down on the mattress, and his body wrapped around hers, warming her, calming her. She realized she was trembling, a belated, almost absent thought, and then she heard his voice, the soft, murmured words of praise and pleasure, as his hands stroked her body into calm, into warmth, into sleep.

  She tried to fight it. There wasn’t enough time, enough time in the world for them, but she couldn’t resist. His words, sex words, love words, senseless, wonderful words in his deep, soothing voice couldn’t be resisted, and she closed her eyes, only for a moment.

  When she slept she dreamed. They would kill him, and they would make her watch, and she cried, reaching out for him. When she awoke she was sprawled across him, the room was still in the complete darkness of early morning, and he was buried deep inside her. She opened her eyes to look down at him, and the orgasm that shook her was powerful, instantaneous, and shared.

  He closed his eyes, his strong teeth bared in a
grimace, and she watched him. She owned him, as much as he owned her.

  Chapter 14

  THE SUN WAS blazing in the window when Cassidy awoke. She was alone in the bed, something which didn’t surprise her. The sheets, both top and bottom, were tangled around her, and the mattress was half off the bed. She was sticky and sore, physically and emotionally exhausted. And she was smiling.

  Wrapping one of the sheets around her, she moved toward the open window. Richard was digging in the garden, and not for one moment did she allow herself to consider that he might be digging her grave. She looked down at the daffodils beneath her, at their cheery yellow bells. There was a worm inside one, eating.

  She never had, and never would, accustom herself to English showers. She scalded herself, she froze herself, she barely managed to get the soap out of her long, thick hair. By the time she emerged she was shivering, and she glanced at her body in the wavery mirror above the pedestal sink.

  She stopped in shock. There were rough patches of red on her fair skin, doubtless from the roughness of his beard. There were dark marks on her breasts, on her hips, on her neck and shoulders from his rapacious mouth, and she could see the faint bruising on her back were his teeth had sunk in deep.

  She looked lush, wanton, and well-loved. She looked like a woman fresh from her lover’s bed, and more than ready to go back there. Her lips were red and swollen, her eyes dazed and dark with remembered passion. She could barely recognize herself.

  She found her suitcase in the bedroom, and she wondered when Richard had brought it in for her. She dressed quickly, throwing on a long full skirt and an oversize cotton sweater, and made her way downstairs, barefoot, to the kitchen.

  He was drinking a cup of coffee. He turned to look at her, slowly, his dark, unreadable eyes sliding over her body, and she waited for some teasing, offhand remark.

  He said absolutely nothing. He simply put his coffee down and came toward her, slowly, deliberately, and she stood her ground. He took the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. By the time he’d lifted her skirt and pushed her underwear down her legs, she’d already managed to unbuckle his belt, and when he pushed her down on the cluttered farm table amid the dishes, he was hard and ready for her, pushing inside her before she’d managed to lean back.