Treasure of the Sun
Page 11
“You stroked me.” Her breath came in little gasps.
“It’s necessary,” he reminded her.
“Not there.”
“No, not necessarily there, but I promised to bring you joy.” Observing her until she tucked her trembling hands beneath her knees, he suggested, “That’s a good way to fulfill my promise.”
Emphatically, she shook her head, pushed to an admission she didn’t want to make. “Pleasure is something men find in bed.”
He released her ankle and she pulled it under her hip. She curled up now, a ball of defensive inhibitions. He considered her. “Are you saying that no one has ever touched your breasts?”
She blushed to hear him say the word, but she replied with bravado. “My cousins used to try until I taught them better.”
“Good God.” He sighed. “Tobias never. . . .” He waved an expressive hand.
She made a sound of dissent.
“It’s not my intention to pry into your married life, but didn’t he even attempt to—?”
“No.”
So you’ve never—
He hesitated, and she prodded, “Never what?”
With deliberate care, he pulled his shirt from his waistband. “A virgin.”
She shook her head.
“Perhaps not in the literal sense, but . . . what did you feel when I kissed you in the library?”
She covered her hot cheeks with her hands. “Please.”
He laughed softly. “Thank God I didn’t mistake that reaction.” He slid the cloth down his arms and pushed it off onto the floor. “Do you like to look at me?”
Her gaze skittered across his shoulders. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“You remind me of a statue my father kept on his desk. Except for—”
“Except for—?”
“The statue didn’t have a head or arms.”
He wasn’t provoked; indeed, he seemed to find delight in her sharp retort. “I have all the necessary parts.”
“No doubt.” She checked him once, quickly. “The parts are damaged.”
“These, you mean?” He indicated the bruising across his ribs. “More evident stupidity. If you’re worried about buying mangled goods, I assure you they will fade.”
Her little nose tilted into the air. “I’m not interested in buying at all.”
“So you’ll give yourself to me if I hurry and get it over with.”
His phrasing offended her, and her discomfort with the subject produced her prim response. “I do not give myself to anyone. I was momentarily tempted to comply with your wishes for the feeling of closeness such union provides.”
“Ah. Have you changed your mind?”
Irrepressible sarcasm bubbled up. “Am I allowed to change my mind?”
“No.” He drawled as if he thought about it as he spoke. “But you are allowed to imitate me. Take off your chemise, so I may enjoy the liberties your eyes pursue.”
“You are quite mad.”
“Am I?” With deliberate movements, he unbuttoned his breeches.
“What are you doing?” A stupid question, she supposed, but it appeared he was taking off his pants.
“Watch and find out.” In a smooth, fluid movement, he slipped them over his hips and tossed them on the floor.
She was petrified. Not with fright, but with an overwhelming disturbance. She’d never seen a naked man before. Tobias certainly hadn’t found it necessary to remove all his clothes at any time in their brief marriage. Damian, on the other hand, seemed to consider it an obligation. He stretched out on his side. One hand cupped his chin, the other rested on the bed near her knee. Unbidden, her gaze ran down his body, then jerked up to his face. “Do you never wear undergarments?”
Ignoring both the ice of her tone and the tremble in her voice, he answered, “I believe I’ll have no need of them.” He smiled at her with warmth and invitation. “You can look all you like.”
For the first time since she’d discovered him in her room, he was relaxed. There was no menace in him, no amusement at her expense. He seemed to have all the time in the world. In some strange way, he made her feel restricted. Where before she felt distinctly unclothed, sitting there in her chemise and pantalettes, now she noticed she was overdressed. She wondered how he could so distort her perceptions.
When she said nothing and stared fixedly into his eyes, he waved his hand down his body in an encompassing gesture.
She looked. She couldn’t help it. Her gaze lingered. She couldn’t help that, either.
“As you can see, men make their desire obvious. It makes them vulnerable.”
“What?”
“Vulnerable. A man cannot deny his attraction, yet a woman can hide hers beneath a cloak of lies and innuendo.”
“There’s nothing to hide,” she snapped.
“Ah, then you’ll take off your top.”
He was clever. Diabolically clever. If he kept talking, he’d have her convinced of his truth. Yet, if she didn’t keep him talking—
“We’ve got all night.”
Could he read her mind?
“Did you know there’s a difference between men and women?”
She snorted.
“For instance, men tend to find their satisfaction very quickly. Women, on the other hand, take longer. But with preparation, a woman can become—” his voice became a breathy whisper “—aroused.”
She crossed her arms, one elbow over the other, on her stomach. His blatant appreciation made her glance down and realize her protective gesture had carried her bosom up. She rearranged herself.
“When a woman becomes aroused, she becomes soft, pliant. There’s a way for a man to bring her to that state.” He shifted closer, wrapping himself around her tightly held knees, enclosing her in his warmth. He tugged on the string at the top of her chemise, untying it. She grabbed for his wrist, but he took her hand, tucked it back in her lap, patted it. “You were willing to take me, if I didn’t drag it out.”
His fingers caught at her lacing again. She put her nails into his hand and said, “No!”
“Why would you give yourself without a fight?” He stared into her eyes, demanding truth. “I expected to be covered with bruises by now, ripped with your nails.” He pulled his hand away and showed the four crescents of blood. “Yet I have only this. Why would you give yourself so easily?”
Impatient with his curiosity, unwilling to share her unorthodox ethics, she felt driven to revelation. “Must everyone believe fornication brings such a tremendous adjustment? I found it changed nothing. The morning after our wedding, Tobias was the same. I was the same. We spoke of the same matters. He told me about the legends in California. I told him about the quilt I worked on. We went for a walk. It was nothing.”
“Madre de Dios.” He flung himself onto his back, his arms outstretched.
His whole, beautiful body lay before her, and the vaguest tingle disturbed her nerves. She ignored it, charging on. “I have long held doubts about my sense of propriety. Most ladies swoon at the mere thought of their wedding night. I approached it as a sensible woman, and I was neither frightened nor disappointed.” He groaned, and she looked to see if he were in pain, or making noises of dissatisfaction. She couldn’t tell.
She noted a definite difference in body color that began at his waist. He was lighter below, darker above, with the exception of his calves. They, too, were tanned. She puzzled for a moment, deciding that it was the result of working without a shirt. With very little effort—really, very little effort—she dismissed his body from her thoughts. “I admit, the thought of carrying your baby when I leave is distressing. Nevertheless, in my understanding, conception is unlikely at this time.”
“What a disappointment.” He sounded reflective.
“What do you mean?”
“You dear, sweet, innocent niña. I mean our child will be welcome at any time.”
She was alarmed again, shaken from her conviction she could expound and convince.
“You are quite insane. We mean nothing to each other. If my body found this pleasure you seem convinced you could give me, then I could find the same pleasure with another man of your skills.”
“What?”
He sat up, and she nodded at him. “Of course. If there is more to this man-woman thing than I’d experienced before, it’s a matter of skill and practice. I already know that Tobias had had little practice, so it stands to reason—”
“Good God, woman!” he said. “You reduce the most wonderful mystery in the world, the mystery of attraction and passion and love, to a tangle of reason and pedantic words.” Under her nose, he slapped the back of his hand into his palm. “Who am I?”
Jumping beneath his emphatic stress, she stuttered, “Why, you’re Don Damian de la Sola.”
“Yes, but who am I?”
She didn’t understand what he searched for with such intensity. “You’re the Spanish son of a landowner here in California.”
“Yes,” he answered, pleased. “Who else am I?”
“You’re a good friend, and a responsible master. You smoke. You dress quietly.” A cloud drifted over his features, grew stormier when she stammered, “You have the respect of your vaqueros, so you ride well, work the cows well, breed good horses. You have a rancho in the Central Valley. You like it there.”
He rubbed his hands wildly in his hair. It stood on end, and its ruffled state displayed the white that salted it above the ears.
“You have some grey hairs,” she added, trying to repair his distress.
“No, no. That’s not what I mean at all,” he said in despair. “When you look at me, you see only things. You see my possessions. You see my friends, my horses. You see skin over muscles and bones. You see legs and arms and a masculine part that makes my voice deeper than yours and puts this hair on my chest. But I’m more than that.” Leaning over her, he stared into her eyes as if he would tell her something without words. “I’m the man who waited for you before I knew who you were. I’m the man who recognized my mate from the moment you stepped off the ship. I’m the man who has foresworn women, all women, since the day I saw you.”
She shook her head against his intensity, and he tried again.
“Mine is the soul that reaches for yours. Mine is the soul that sings to yours without words. Mine is the soul that lifts yours through the empty places where you must walk.”
She could hear him, but she couldn’t comprehend him. She wouldn’t comprehend him.
One winged eyebrow rose in cynical disdain. “Bah, you’re too immature to know. Let me know when you can see me. Let me know when you know me. Call me by my name when you want me.”
He rolled off the bed and stalked to the window, and tears rose in her eyes. She didn’t know this Damian. She didn’t know him at all.
When her eyes opened, a grey light permeated the room, yet it wasn’t early. Dawn had slipped by, masked by the clouds and a slow, steady drip of rain. As if he’d never moved all the night long, Damian stood leaning against the window sill, looking out over his land. A curl of smoke drifted in on the wind, and she knew a lighted cigar rested between two fingers.
He was naked.
His dark hair lay ragged against his shoulders. His back tapered down to a . . . a hinderpart that was so muscled the sides of his cheeks were concave. His legs were the legs of a rider. She blushed and closed her eyes at the comparison.
After all, she was a sensible woman. Looking at him solved nothing and most certainly wasn’t the act of a lady.
On the other hand, she would probably never look on another naked man, and if she did, he couldn’t be as pleasant to the eye as Damian. She preferred to think of herself as sensible; logical was another adjective she applied. Temptation, she realized glumly, was something she’d never encountered before.
Opening her eyes, she got the full frontal view.
She didn’t blink. He leaned against the wall, his cigar in his hand, watching her with the same possessive challenge he would a fractious horse.
She looked him over. In for a penny, in for a pound, her father always said. After all, he’d come to her last night. He’d never left the room. She’d been asleep, curled into a little ball of misery when he lay down, yet she’d known he rested there. He’d pulled her quilt over him, keeping the blanket between their bodies, and she’d snuggled tight to his shoulder. She wouldn’t speak of his tenderness in the daylight, yet the dark would always bring the memory.
“Why did you guard my chamber every night?” she asked, picking up the conversation just as if they were seated in a parlor and she’d interrupted him to serve him tea.
He raised his cigar to his lips and took a long pull. His eyes half closed with the pleasure, and he relaxed as he let out the smoke in a steady stream. “Because I didn’t know if your life was in danger. It was a possibility, although I’d taken every precaution to ensure that no one, except the servants, knew where you were.”
A thrill at his protectiveness flustered her, and she willed it away. “Did you think the murderer was interested in me?”
“Probably not, but since there was no obvious motivation for the killing of Tobias, I had to ensure your safety. You were in no condition to ensure it for yourself. My vaqueros patrolled every night; my servants watched over you. When nothing happened we released the information of your whereabouts and I left, making a great noise, for the Sacramento Valley.”
“Why?” she asked, startled.
“To bait the trap. It was as guarded as I could make it, yet we had to draw out the murderer, if he were interested in you.”
“I can’t believe you would abandon the hacienda when—”
“I did not.” He smiled grimly. “I lived with the vaqueros.” Knowing the rough conditions of the cowboys, she objected, “Why would you live such a life, when comfort was so close?”
“It gave me something to distract me.”
“From what?” she asked, unthinking.
His steady gaze answered the question before he said, “From the death of my best friend. From the thought of his wife, sleeping in my house and bedeviled with nightmares.”
She found herself looking at the walls, the bedposts, the chair, the pitcher. Anything was better than looking at him. She didn’t want to contemplate what she’d learned about his passions last night. Not yet; she wasn’t ready.
Turning to lean on his shoulder, he stared out the window. “No one came after you, though. Eventually, I really did go to the Sacramento Valley. My rancho needed attention, and I’d been neglecting it. Still, you didn’t see me every time I came back to check on you.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve depended on me for a long time.”
“So it would appear.” She didn’t like his insinuation, and she sat up, tucking the sheet beneath her armpits briskly. That air of efficiency was one of her best-loved and most effective masks; she wore it now with determination. “Well, it’s not necessary any longer.” Holding her hand up when he would protest, she said, “I assure you, I’ve been taking responsibility for my own safety and my own actions for many years.”
“You don’t have to do that anymore. I’ll take care of you.” He watched her intently.
“A pleasant euphemism for an unpleasant thing. My uncle said the same thing to the chambermaid, and within a year she was thrown into the streets swollen with his bastard.”
He looked disgusted. “A disagreeable term for an innocent baby.”
His biting reproof made her feel ashamed. Defensive, she retorted, “The poor girl was bewildered, lost, starving. I’d sneak out with food, but she finally sold her body until she swelled so big no man would buy it. But men aren’t finicky, she discovered. She’d made enough to support herself until the babe was born.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“The baby, she left in a chur
ch. She’d hang around the alleyway outside Uncle Rutherford’s, and I’d talk to her.” She grinned in lopsided amusement. “Maura was pretty, you understand. That’s what attracted dear Uncle Rutherford, of course. She was none too intelligent, either, and that kept her on the streets. But she knew despair when she saw it. She offered me money.”
“For what reason?”
“Because I had none. Because I had less than the lowest servant.” With the same twisted smile, she looked him straight in the eye. “Because she felt sorry for me.”
He didn’t smile back or indicate in any way he’d heard or understood what she’d told him. “Did you tell your uncle about the child?”
“When it was born, do you mean?” He nodded and her smile vanished. “When I told Uncle Rutherford he had a son, he never even raised his head. He asked, ‘So?’”
“What did you say?”
“I threatened—” her voice cracked, her eyes swam with tears, and she lowered her head to hide them “—I threatened to tell Aunt Narcissa. He asked me how long I thought my mother would survive in the streets like Maura.”
His hands clamped onto the sheet on either side of her hips, and she jerked her head up. How had he gotten across the room so quickly? The blaze of fury that ignited his face was answer enough.
“Do you compare me to your Uncle Rutherford?”
“No,” she stammered. “That’s not what I meant at all. I meant—” She remembered what she’d said and she knew why he roiled with anger. “I didn’t mean it that way. I simply meant you can’t ‘take care of me.’ I realize you’d never turn me out onto the streets. I know you’d take care of our children. But even though I’m not one of your Spanish doñas, I still have my pride.”
His grip on the sheet loosened and he tried to interrupt, but she waved him to silence.
“When I lived with my aunt and uncle, I would sometimes be informed, mostly by the men who were shocked my uncle used my legal services, that Cinderella and I had much in common.” She grinned, a gamine grin that astonished him, and allowed him his first glimpse of the young troublemaker she had once been. “I found I lacked the gentle resignation that made Cinderella such a popular heroine. When Tobias came to dinner—well, he wasn’t the perfect prince, but I knew I could make myself happy with him.” Her smile grew wider and her eyes danced. “He was a foreigner, a craftsman who worked with his hands. Uncle Rutherford and Aunt Narcissa looked down their noble noses at him. They cited their exalted ancestry. They talked about how it ran in an unbroken line back to the Pilgrims of the Mayflower and they reminded me, grudgingly, that my ancestry was theirs.”