Betina Krahn (29 page)

WHEN BEATRICE AND
Alice arrived in the private dining room Connor had arranged that evening, they discovered that their celebration included a half dozen legislators who would be key in the passage of their bill of charter.

“Surprised?” Connor murmured as he held her chair at the linen-draped table.

“Very.” Her pleasure was somewhat forced.

“I’m learning to use every political opportunity to the fullest.” The twinkle in his eye said he had taken that particular lesson from her.

Dinner was splendid and the conversation lively. All too soon the time came when ladies were expected to retire and leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars. Beatrice rose like the hostess she was and circled the table, greeting and chatting with each legislator, thanking him for coming and for his support in the coming days. One by one, the men headed downstairs to the smoking room, and Beatrice and Alice gathered their wraps and started for their room. Connor reappeared as
they were halfway up the stairs and seized Beatrice’s hand.

“Some of your new friends suggested you join us for brandy and cigars.”

“What?” She gave a puzzled laugh. “Don’t be silly … it’s not done.”

“I was under the impression that you make your own rules.” He raised one eyebrow. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about how the other half lives?”

She glanced at Alice, who was no help at all: “I won’t tell.”

Truth be told, it was tempting to be offered a place among the state’s elite. “All right, I’ll come,” she said, handing off her purse to Alice. “But only if I get to try a cigar.”

He chuckled, and as they hurried down the stairs he tossed Alice a cheery “Don’t wait up” over his shoulder.

He escorted her down to the lobby and through the main parlor toward the paneled smoking room marked with a standing sign declaring “Gentlemen Only.” But instead of entering, he veered to the side and down a short hallway to a side set of stairs.

“What are you doing? The smoking room—”

“Is empty,” he declared, pulling her up the steps with him.

“But you said …”

“They all went home,” he said, pausing on the first landing. “I thought we might use the time for a bit more personal celebration.” He circled her waist with one arm and pulled her against him. “What do you think?”

She couldn’t decide whether to be delighted or scandalized. It was damned assuming of him. On the other hand—she felt his hard body pressed against hers—it was exactly what she had wanted earlier.

“I think,” she said, warming quickly to the idea, “I could be persuaded.”

He led her onto the second floor, despite her protests that their rooms were on the third, and pulled her into an elegant suite furnished in Chinese Chippendale and blue and white damask. The floors were covered with silk rugs and there was a marble fireplace set with silk chairs stuffed with down. In the center of the spacious room sat an elegant four-poster draped with blue willow print damascene and gauzy silk tulle. She blushed when he caught her staring at it and pulled her into his arms.

“This”—he reached behind her to throw the lock—“is now my room.”

“Oh, my,” she exhaled on a breath,

“Yours, indeed,” he said just before he kissed her senseless. Her knees buckled and he caught her tight against him. “Very definitely yours.” He slid his hands around her waist and up her back, caressing her. “Any way you want me.”

The sense of what he said finally penetrated the steam enveloping her rational processes. She pushed back lightly in his arms to look up at him. The light deep in his eyes invited her to test that offer of control.

“Even if I decide”—she thought of the tantalizing possibilities she had glimpsed at the Oriental Palace—“you need a bit of time with a strict schoolmistress?”

A spark flared in his eyes. “Absolutely.”

“Or if I decide … you should pose like an artist’s model for me?”

His smile was slow and irredeemably sinful. “You catch on quickly.”

Her eyes glowed with mischief. “I have it on good authority that congressmen require a strong hand.”

“A strong hand.” He pressed her hand against his
chest and directed it down his body. “Ummm. By all means, use a strong—” He looked down at her. “What authority? Who do you know that ‘handles’ congressmen?”

“Diedre, I believe her name is,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

He frowned, unable to place … Then he thought of the other things she had just mentioned and realized where she must have come into contact with such a creature. “It seems you made good use of your time at the Oriental.”

She laughed softly and slid both hands over his body, exploring him through his clothes, collecting impressions, seeking the satisfaction of a hundred little curiosities roused by postures and movement. She pressed his vest and shirt taut against his chest and then rubbed her cheek against them.

“Take them off,” she said, stepping back to watch. He slid his coat from his shoulders, unbuttoned his vest, and removed his shirt. By the soft glow of the oil lamp, she circled him, dragging her fingertips over his hard frame and sleek skin, memorizing every slope and mound of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said, her voice thick with discovery and desire. Then, testing the control he had put in her hands, she leaned close and whispered, “Take your trousers off, too.”

“If I do,” he said with a tremor, “your skirts will come off next.”

“Is that supposed to be an objection?”

A moment later he stood naked before her, astonishing her with his ease. He behaved as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps it was. For as she ordered him to take her clothes off and he obeyed, piece
by piece, she felt gradually lighter, freer. By the time they stood naked together, she found herself thinking that indeed this was the most natural and honest way for men and women to be with each other. No pretense or artifice. No evasion or deception. All she was and all he was … revealed … offered …

She waited for him to accept and take her into his arms, but he stood silent, eyes hot and body thick and ripe with desire. Suddenly she understood. He was waiting for her … putting control in her hands … giving her the power she wanted and needed. She looked into his eyes and saw inside the desire and longing, a glint of understanding. He knew about her. He knew what she needed to feel safe and to be free.

“Take me to bed, Connor. And love me,” she said, uncertain whether she had spoken aloud until he grinned and scooped her up into his arms.

With unhurried care, he laid her gently amidst the pillows and pristine linen. She had time only for one self-conscious shiver before he joined her and began to cover her with kisses and caresses. As he slid slowly over her, she brought her knees up to cradle him between her thighs, and luxuriated in the heat and weight of his body against hers.

Opening to his kisses, she first sought and then demanded more. Nibbling kissing … discovery accompanied each breath, each touch, each motion. Every particle of her being came to life, craving that life-giving sense of communion.

She welcomed him into her body, trembling as he imbedded himself in her and began to move with exquisite deliberation. Years of maturing and restraint had brought control to his loving and now each simple movement created pleasures of infinite meaning and
complexity for both the giver and recipient. She understood with a wisdom beyond her experience that his touches and caresses, his kisses and sweet, hot whispers were far more than just an exercise in pleasure. They resonated with caring and delight in discovering a part of himself in another … his counterpart.

A sweet fever seized them as their bodies blended and molded to each other. They submerged in a sea of heat and sensation that grew steadily more intense and compelling. Each knew where it was leading and both gave themselves over to the drive for completion that propelled them sharply upward, until they reached a shattering climax.

For one breathtaking moment, there were no boundaries, no bodies, no separation of self, and no end to that lush, drenching pleasure.

In the gentle calm that followed, as their hearts returned to normal and their breathing slowed, she looked at him with new eyes. And as they lay together, luxuriating in a delicious lethargy, she understood that something fundamental had changed for him also. He was letting go, releasing his own expectations and demands, allowing her to be who and what she was.

When she awakened, some time later, he was padding back to the bed, bringing her a glass of wine. “Thank you.” She sat up against the pillows and pulled the sheet across her midsection. While she sipped, he settled onto the bed with his back against the footboard and began to run his hands slowly up and down her calf.

“What are you doing?” She gave him a quizzical look.

“Something you’ll like,” he said with a small, seductive smile.

Slowly, he began to draw his fingers up her arch and
around her ankle in a repeating pattern. Every nerve in her body began to hum as he pulled her foot onto his lap and began to apply his thumbs to the sole of her foot in circular, kneading motions. Up her arch, down her arch … rubbing pressing, massaging … until she closed her eyes. His touch was subtly erotic, but also contained elements of comfort and caring that left her both stimulated and relaxed.

Leave it to him to find a way to sweet-talk without even using words.

When he paused for a moment, she opened her eyes and wiggled her toes, urging him to continue.

“If we keep this up, we may turn you into a romantic,” he said with a laugh, watching her eyes begin to glow with warmth and arousal.

“Me?” She gave a huge sigh and settled back contentedly into the pillows. “Well, I suppose there are worse things to be. Horse thieves, white slavers, ax murderers …”

The rumble in his chest somehow sent a pleasant hum up her leg.

“Dangerous company we romantics keep,” he said.

“Romantics
are
dangerous,” she said, looking up at him. “Romantics dare to dream. And dreams are what inspire innovations and reforms, and even revolutions.”

“Sounds grim. I don’t believe I’ve participated in any revolutions lately.”

“Oh, yes you have.”

“I have?” He tucked his chin down to look at her. “Where?” It struck him. “Oh, the charter committee and my grandfather. To be honest—”

“Not there,” she said quietly, searching him, deciding how much was safe to say. Then she smiled ruefully at
her stubborn habit of seeking control. She was never going to be “safe” again, especially around him. And she’d better get used to it.

“In here.” She tapped her temple, then she tapped her chest above her heart. “And here.”

He frowned while smiling, confused for a moment. Then he met her gaze and seemed to understand what she was saying.

“You’ve stirred things up in me, made me think about things in a different way. I’m not the same woman you met in Charlotte Brown’s Dungeon.”

He ran his knuckles down the sole of her foot and gave her a look of such feeling and compassion that her heart seemed to pause and then to race.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, eyeing her half-naked form appreciatively. “You look pretty much the same to me. Minus the whip and cane, of course.” He grinned. “And you certainly give orders the same.”

“Only when you ask me to,” she said, sitting up, her eyes shining.

“Oh?” He sat up straighter. She definitely had his attention now. “And what if I want to give orders?”

“I … might be persuaded to … cooperate.”

He laughed at her careful choice of words. “Obey” was apparently not in her vocabulary.

“And what would I have to do to
persuade
you?”

“Well, let’s see.” She looked around the sleeping room, thinking, and came up with something suitable. “You could tell me what the devil Charlotte Brown’s customers use that ship’s wheel for.”

He hooted a laugh, and squeezed her against his side.

“I could tell you … but, why do that when I can show you instead?”

She grimaced as he slid from the bed and pulled her up with him.

“No, really—” She tried to bring the sheet with her but failed, and was forced to grab the next available thing—his shirt lying on the nearby chair. “I have a very good imagination,” she said, struggling to don the shirt with only one hand, “just tell me.”

“Ohhh, no. Come on … you may even like this.” He stood her at the end of the bed, with her back against the ornately carved footboard. She squirmed, feeling a bit exposed in his unbuttoned shirt.

“Onboard ships, the wheel was the symbol of the captain’s authority and as such was sometimes used for disciplinary purposes.” He propped her hands out on the footboard, on either side of her, ordering her to: “Stay there.” He grabbed up her belt and his tie and began to lash her wrists to the bed.

“They would tie the offender’s hands to the ship’s wheel …”

“Hey!” She jerked her hands back. “You’re not going to—”

“Demonstrate? I most certainly am. Do you want to be ‘persuaded’ or not?”

The glint in his eye and the sensual heat beginning to radiate from him convinced her it might prove worth the risk. After a moment, she laid her hands back on the bed rail. He waggled his eyebrows as if to say she wouldn’t be sorry, then, lapping the restraints loosely, he bound first one wrist, then the other.

“They meted out punishment before the entire crew. Lashes, usually.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at his sensually dangerous expression, then at her loosely bound wrists. All
she had to do was lift her hands and she would be free, but she found herself grabbing onto the top of the footboard and hanging on.

“L-Lashes?” she said distractedly. “With what?”

“A whip, a cat-o’-nine-tails, a bamboo cane … the usual.” His gaze slid over her and settled on the gaping front of the shirt she wore. “Of course, there are other possibilities …” His eyes narrowed in concentration, then he strode over to the writing desk near the window and opened the drawer. She found herself bracing as he returned and from behind his back he drew an old-fashioned writing quill.

“What are you going to do with … oh … ohh … ohhhhh. I see.”