Cherished

by Elizabeth Thornton

  He subdued her struggles as easily as if she had been a child. Seduction was no longer his object. He was claiming her, conquering, demanding her abject submission. Before long, she was held down by cruel, uncaring hands, her body heaving in helpless defiance. Closing her eyes, she resigned herself for the final humiliating violation.

  He sensed the exact moment she had brought herself to accept him. His lips moved over her face. “Emily?” he murmured, her name no more than a breath of a sound. “Emily?” and there was an age-old masculine plea in his voice.

  She wasn’t going to give in to him. He didn’t deserve it. And then his mouth found the peak of one sensitive breast and an unwilling moan of pleasure slipped from her throat. Leon’s head lifted. His nostrils flared. He absorbed the flush mantling her face and breasts, the quivering lips, the pleasure-dazed eyes.

  “Yes,” he said fiercely, exultantly, and, pressing her shoulders into the mattress, he imposed his body upon hers.

  The pain of his possession was intolerable. Emily could not cry out. Just to breathe was agony. Fresh tears started to her eyes. She wasn’t to know that, for her sake, he had forced himself to a control he could barely maintain. Convulsively, her hands clenched and unclenched on the bunched muscles on his shoulders. “Leon…Leon,” she breathed brokenly, trying to convey her torment, trying to shame him into releasing her.

  His mouth captured hers, swallowing her small moans of distress. “Soon, my love, soon the pain will pass,” he soothed.

  He was right. The searing pain was suddenly gone, as if it had never existed. She sighed, and her hands unclenched, slipping from his shoulders to his waist. Beneath his tender ministration, her muscles went lax. Sudden fury engulfed her. The eyes she raised to his flashed with violet fire.

  “Later,” he said, laughing softly. “Chastise me later.” He eased deeper into her body, sheathing himself to the hilt, submerging her in a storm of sensation. She caught her breath. She could no more hold back her response to him than she could turn back the tide. Nor would he have permitted it. He was unrelenting in his determined assault on her every feminine defense. Clamping her body tightly to his, he took her plunging into a world of passion where nothing existed but the demanding clamor of their senses and the hurtling ride toward rapture. His hoarse cry was only a breath behind her own surprised cry of ecstasy. Holding her to him, kissing her feverishly, with hard, violent thrusts, he emptied himself deep in her body.

  She awakened with a start. Though there was no lantern burning, she knew exactly where she was and who was bending over her.

  His lips brushed her ear then he bit gently into the soft flesh of one earlobe. “You slept through the fireworks,” he whispered in that lazily teasing tone which never failed to annoy her. “I’m glad you are not going to sleep through this.”

  His hand curved around one sleep-warmed breast, kneading it gently. The pulse at her throat beat so rapidly, so strongly, that she could not draw her next breath. She sensed the sudden leap of his passion as he became aware of her arousal. She tried to draw away.

  “Leon…” she said weakly, meaning to say something of grave import. Her mind could not seem to form one sensible thought.

  He turned her on her side, facing him, and drew her left leg to lie across his flanks. She murmured something incoherent which he ignored. His teeth nipped the sensitive swell of her underlip, and her lips parted of their own volition. The invitation was instantly accepted. His tongue slipped inside, learning her intimately. Tentatively, she touched her tongue to his. He went perfectly still, then emitted a soft sound before driving deeper into her mouth. The embrace seemed to melt her very bones. The blood was pounding through her veins. When he pressed his hand to the secret place between her legs and slipped a finger inside, her shoulder jerked up from the pillows.

  “Easy,” he said, in that same amused drawl. “Easy,” and he gently pushed her back into the depths of the feather mattress.

  Her hands were on his shoulders. He brought first one then the other to his lips and kissed each passionately on the open palm before drawing them down the length of his body. He smoothed her fingers around his swollen sex. When he removed his hand, so did she. Laughing softly, he recaptured it.

  “Touch me,” he said in a strangely pleading tone, and he moved her fingers in a voluptuous caress, showing her what he wanted.

  There was a moment when her mind resisted, leaping back in time to another scene: Leon Devereux in the dower house, stripping out of his clothes. Before the picture could form in her brain, as though her thoughts were transparent, he caught her to him, pressing his face into the hollow of her throat.

  “I won’t let you think of that other time,” he said fiercely. “This is different. I told you it would be.” She was turning her head away, trying to set him at a distance. She gasped when his fingers bit into her shoulders, dragging her round. “Once and for all, we are going to exorcise the past. When you think of me like this,” he forced her hand between their bodies, compelling her to accept the hard, silky length of him, “you will remember only the pleasure we shared and you will relive every second of it in your mind.”

  He rolled from the bed. Emily pulled herself to her elbows, her ears and eyes straining through the darkness to make out what he was doing. A moment later, a light flared as he lit the lantern. He moved to the small windows and closed the curtains. Her heart jarred against her ribs when he spun to face her.

  Now that she had time to observe him, she saw that Leon Devereux was all male. His skin was tanned. From throat to groin, silky black hair grew in profusion. He was as sleek as a panther and twice as lethal.

  Clutching the bedsheet under her chin, swallowing, she said, “Wh-what are you going to do?”

  There wasn’t a shred of modesty in him as he came to stand at the foot of the bed. “Listen,” he said. “What do you hear?”

  She did not know what game he was playing and she shook her head nervously.

  In a voice that was charged with tension, he said, “Tell me what you hear.”

  This time, Emily really listened. When he rested one knee against the mattress, she said quickly, “I hear the water, the river, as it laps against the sides of the boat.”

  “What else do you hear?”

  “I hear…you…breathing, as though…”

  “As though what, Emily?”

  “As though you were angry.”

  “I’m not angry. I hear you breathing, too. Are you angry?”

  “No.”

  Her quick denial brought a flashing smile to his lips. “When I am near you, my breathing always quickens. It’s been like this for years. Didn’t you know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “And when you are near me, it’s the same for you. I’ve known that for years, too.”

  All this talk of breathing was having a peculiar effect on her. She wasn’t breathing. She was panting. With restless fingers, she combed long tendrils of fine hair back from her face.

  “Now tell me what you see,” he said.

  It was a relief not to have to look at him. Quickly averting her eyes, she glanced around the cabin. She noted the table set with fine crystal and silverware for the late supper which had never materialized. The walls and windows were draped in gold silk; the bed cover and upholstery on the chairs and sofa were white velvet. A handsome rosewood dresser inlaid with ivory stood between the two small windows. The interior was luxurious. The yacht was a pleasure craft and obviously the property of some rich man.

  “Well?”

  Obedient to the command in his tone, she described the cabin.

  “You will remember this cabin. In fact, it will be indelibly impressed on your mind, as it will be on mine also.”

  The remark was obscure and Emily let it pass without comment.

  “What else do you see?” He straightened, and stood with hands on lean flanks, a grin on his face.

  Emily moistened her lips. “That’s all there is.”

&nbs
p; “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, enjoying her discomfort immensely, “there is a man in this cabin, Emily.”

  There was no way she was going to describe Leon Devereux without his clothes. Setting her jaw, she looked at him with reproachful eyes.

  “Shy, Emily? Then I shall take the initiative, shall I, and tell you what I see?” He leaned against the bedpost with unconcerned animal grace. “I see a woman men would kill for to have in their possession.” The words were electrifying. Emily’s eyes widened even further. His smile was ironic. “Don’t you believe me?” he asked whimsically.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I’m just an ordinary girl.”

  Laughter glinted in his eyes. “I’ve sometimes wondered if that’s what Helen of Troy said when her husband besieged Troy with his Greek armies. She mistook her husband’s character, you see, and so did her suitor. They learned a hard lesson.”

  Though his manner was pleasant, the words held an underlying threat. Emily absorbed it in wide-eyed silence. Helen of Troy, as far as she knew, had never had an understanding with her husband, whereas Leon had promised that their marriage would be annulled at an appropriate time.

  “But I am digressing,” he went on when it was obvious that Emily meant to preserve her silence. “I see a woman who is the embodiment of everything I admire in a woman. I’ve wanted to possess you for a long, long time. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you see.”

  Her eyes traveled over his naked length. His virility was potent and completely unnerved her. Her eyes fell away. “Leon,” she said weakly, not understanding why he should be so cruel to her.

  He came to her at once. Cradling her in his arms, he said, “Emily, don’t look at me like that. I’m only a man—your husband. You must never be afraid of me.”

  One hand tipped her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes. “It’s not me you fear, Emily. Don’t you know that yet? What you fear, what you are fighting, is in your own mind. If you were to give yourself to me without reservation, you would come to see the truth of my words.”

  His gaze moved down to her mouth, then to her breasts, which quivered with her quickened breathing. The nipples were dark and engorged.

  His eyes flew to hers. Holding her gaze, he took one hand and pressed it against his chest. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered it. Beneath the sensitive pads of her fingers, she felt the warm, smooth flesh, the graze of coarse hair, powerful masculine muscles, tensed and straining.

  Her hands lifted as she sensed the tightly leashed control. If he wanted to, this man could really hurt her.

  “No,” he groaned, intuitively grasping her thought. “Feel how much power you have over me.”

  He guided her hand to his jutting sex, refusing to allow her to draw back. His eyes closed. His head was thrown back. With a dawning awareness of her own power, she watched the rise and fall of his chest as he dragged air into his lungs. His nostrils were quivering. His mouth was open. When he released her hand, she did not draw it away as she had done before.

  He opened his eyes. “Now kiss me,” he said, “the way I kissed you,” and he brought his lips to within an inch of hers.

  Hesitantly, she slipped her tongue between his teeth. He deepened the embrace, kissing her avidly, his hands urging her closer, positioning her till she was half sprawled over him. His mouth descended, lingering at the hollow of her throat, the slope of her shoulder, closing hotly over the peak of one breast. Her breathing became labored, and her body began to shake.

  Suddenly, he rolled with her, and the soft mattress was at her back. His kisses were fervid, demanding a response from her. Moaning with need, she pressed herself against him.

  “Open your legs for me,” he breathed thickly.

  When she obeyed, he pulled back, disengaging himself from her arms. She cried out in protest, reaching for him.

  He knelt between her thighs, desire blazing from him as he looked down at her. “When you think of me with a woman, this is what I want you to remember.” Her eyes were closed. “Look at me,” he said harshly, then more gently, “Look at me.”

  Her eyes were bewildered with passion as she tried to focus on him.

  “Look at me,” he repeated, unrelenting in his determination to wipe the ugly memory of the dower house from her mind. When he saw that he had her attention, he kissed one knee, then the other. “Look at me, crazy with wanting you. Look at you, open to me, inviting me to enter your body. Think of this cabin. Think of the sounds, the scents, of our lovemaking. You and me, Emily. That is what I wish you to remember.”

  For a long moment, his eyes held hers in a heated, passionate caress. Then he arched his body, taking her mouth with his as he slowly filled her with the pulsating heat of his masculinity.

  As he moved above her, the sound of their breathing became harsher; their movements became rhythmic. He whispered love words. She emitted soft cries of surrender, arching her throat, giving herself up to the demands of his body. As the shattering release engulfed her, tears came from nowhere and spilled over, drenching his neck. Afterward, when she was still quivering in his arms trying to get her breath back, he turned her into him, removing each heedless tear with the tip of his tongue. His gentleness, his tenderness, was her undoing. She fell asleep weeping into his throat.

  Chapter Six

  She awakened to a rush of unfamiliar sensations and scents. Whimpering, she fought herself free of a tangle of bedclothes and dragged herself into a sitting position. The curtains at the windows were pulled back, admitting an unwelcome radiance. Soft footfalls sounded overhead and the muffled cries of rivermen echoed over the Thames. The boat was in motion. She had been abducted!

  With a little cry of alarm, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then quickly pulled the covers up to her chin as the door opened to admit her husband. He stood on the threshold, smiling, holding a mug in one hand. He wore no jacket, and the white lawn shirt was open at the throat, showing a column of tanned skin. His black pantaloons clung to his long, muscular legs. One comprehensive glance conveyed a multitude of impressions. A panther, she thought, and one who had gorged himself on his kill. Leon Devereux was inordinately pleased with himself. She missed the trace of wariness in his eyes.

  “I would like to know where you are taking me,” she said, trying for dignity, wincing inwardly at the betraying wobble in her voice.

  “You’ll feel better after you have bathed and have had something to eat,” he replied.

  For some reason she took exception to his cordial tone. “And you should know, I suppose?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning…” She caught the look of amused comprehension, and concluded crossly, “Oh, never mind.”

  “No, I am not in the habit of abducting virgins and having my way with them,” he said cheerfully, and deposited the mug on the small table. Ignoring her sullen look, he crossed to one of the draped walls and pulled back the curtain to reveal a door. “Milady’s bath awaits,” he said. “You’ll find everything you need to be comfortable on the other side of this door.”

  She was combing the long tangles of wayward hair back from her face in a characteristic gesture that hit him in the stomach with all the impact of a kick from a horse. He had noticed that when Emily was confused, her hands invariably went to her hair, rearranging it whether or not it was necessary. This morning, it definitely needed to be rearranged. His doing. He had to bite down on a smile. His wife was in no mood to appreciate a show of unabashed masculine gloating.

  She was unsure, off balance. Good. At long last, Lady Emily Devereux was looking at her husband with feminine awareness, and not as though he were a maggot she had discovered in an apple from which she had just taken a bite.

  He didn’t give her time to think. Crossing to the bed, he pressed a long, possessive kiss on her surprised lips. “Drink your coffee,” he said. “Bathe and dress. You’ll find your clothes in the dresser. We shall talk over breakfast.”

  Everything about him annoyed her. She didn’
t like the way he whistled as he left the cabin. She didn’t like his cheery air. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, as though he owned her. And she most particularly did not like the way he had remembered that she always started the day with a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

  In a flurry of motion, with only a sheet to cover her, she dragged herself to the door he had indicated. The aroma of coffee was irresistible. Swiping the mug from the table, she stomped into the bathing room.

  The room was almost half as large as the cabin she had shared with Leon. Against one wall was the ubiquitous commode, but one so ornate, so opulent that it might have been the throne of some Arabian sheik. Two doors gave entrance into the room, one from her cabin and the other from the gangway. The tub had already been filled with water. The fragrance was unmistakable. Gardenia, her fragrance.

  She stayed submerged in the bathwater for a long time, sipping her coffee, putting her thoughts in order. Men, she decided, were perverse, vexing creatures. They were no better than animals. Leon loved Sara. That did not stop him from taking any other passable female who happened to be available. She gritted her teeth, remembering how she had contributed to her own downfall. She had longed for a woman’s fulfillment, but what she had wanted was love, not this storm of the senses that did not involve the finer feelings. And love did not come into it. She had hated Leon Devereux for years. That could not alter. Then why had she accepted him as her lover last night?

  The answer came to her almost as soon as her thoughts had formed the question. It seemed that men and women, at least some women, were not so very different after all. Lady Riddley had said as much. Men and women have needs, Lady Riddley had said. It was the truth. It must be. But there was one major difference between the sexes. Females had more gumption, more willpower. She might lust after Leon Devereux, but that did not mean that she would give in to her baser nature. Now that she knew she was capable of experiencing the most rapturous pleasure, she would be on her guard to prevent a repetition of last night.