Just Imagine (30 page)

He liked this room. It was comfortable, with enough furniture to be functional but not enough to crowd him. The bed was large enough to accommodate his tall frame. Next to it was a washstand and across the room were a chest and a bookcase. In the winter the polished floorboards were covered with braided rugs for warmth, but now they were bare, the way he liked them.

He heard splashing from the copper tub behind the screen in a corner of the room, and his mouth tightened. He hadn't told Sophronia that the bath he'd asked her to have ready upon his return was for Kit, not himself. Kit had ordered him out of the room; then, when she'd seen he wasn't going, she'd stuck her nose in the air and disappeared behind the screen. Despite the fact that the water could no longer be warm, she wasn't in any hurry to get out.

Even without seeing her, he knew how she'd look when she rose from that tub. Her skin would glow golden in the light from the lamp, and her hair would curl over her shoulders, its inky blackness stark against the pale cream of her skin.

He thought about the trust fund he'd married her for. Marrying for money was something he would have despised another man for doing, yet it didn't bother him. He wondered why. And then he stopped wondering, because he didn't want to know the answer. He didn't want to acknowledge that this marriage had little to do with money or rebuilding the cotton mill. Instead, it was about that single moment of vulnerability when he'd abandoned the caution of a lifetime and decided to open his heart to a woman. For one moment, his thoughts had been tender, foolish, and ultimately more dangerous to him than all the battles of the war.

In the end it wouldn't be the cotton mill he was going to make her pay for, but that moment of vulnerability. Tonight, the antagonism between them would be sealed forever. Then he'd be able to go on with his life without being tantalized by phantom hopes for the future.

He raised the brandy to his lips, took a sip, then set the glass on the floor. He wanted to be stone-cold sober for what was about to happen.

From behind the screen, Kit heard the scrape of wooden legs across the bare floor and knew he'd grown impatient with waiting. She grabbed for a towel and, while she wrapped it around herself, wished she had something more substantial to cover her. But her own clothing was gone. Cain had disposed of her ruined garments after she'd taken them off.

Her head shot up as he pushed back one end of the folding screen. He stood resting one hand on top of the wooden frame.

"I'm not finished yet," she managed to say.

"You've had enough time."

"I don't know why you forced me to take my bath in your room."

"Yes, you do."

She clutched the towel more tightly. Once again she searched for some escape from what lay ahead, but there was an awful sense of inevitability about it. He was her husband now. If she tried to run, he'd catch her. If she fought him, he'd overpower her. Her only course lay in submission, just as Mrs. Templeton had advised in that distant life Kit had lived only a little more than a month ago. But submission had never been an easy course for her.

She gazed at the thin gold ring on her finger. It was small and pretty, with two tiny hearts at the top delicately outlined in diamond-and-ruby chips. He told her he'd gotten it from Miss Dolly.

"I don't have anything to put on," she said.

"You don't need anything."

"I'm cold."

Slowly, without taking his gaze from hers, he unbuttoned his shirt and passed it over.

"I don't want to take your shirt. If you'll move out of the way, I'll go to my room and get my robe."

"I'd rather stay here."

Obstinate, overbearing man! She gritted her teeth and stepped out of the tub. Holding the towel to her body with one hand, she reached for his shirt with the other. Clumsily, she slipped it on over the towel. Then she turned her back to him, dropped the towel, and rapidly fastened the row of buttons.

The long sleeves kept getting in her way, making the job more difficult. As the shirttails clung to her damp thighs, she was conscious of how thin the material was over her nakedness. She turned up the cuffs and edged past him. "I need to go to my room and comb out my hair or it'll tangle."

"Use my comb." He inclined his head toward the bureau.

She walked over and picked it up. Her face stared back at her from the mirror. She looked pale and wary, but she didn't look frightened. She should be, she thought, as she drew the comb through the long strands of wet hair. Cain hated her. He was powerful and unpredictable, stronger than she was, and he had the law on his side. She should be screaming for mercy now. Instead, she felt an odd agitation.

In the mirror's reflection she saw him slouch into the wing chair. He idly crossed one ankle over his knee. His eyes caught hers. She looked away and combed her hair more vigorously, sending droplets spattering.

She heard movement, and her gaze darted back to the mirror. Cain had picked up a glass from the floor and was lifting it to her reflection.

"Here's to wedded bliss, Mrs. Cain."

"Don't call me that."

"It's your name. Have you forgotten already?"

"I haven't forgotten anything." She took a deep breath. "I haven't forgotten that I've wronged you. But I've already paid the price, and I don't need to pay any more."

"I'll be the judge of that. Now put down that comb and turn around so I can look at you."

Slowly she did as he said, a queer excitement building along with her dread. Her eyes settled on the scars that marred his chest. "Where did you get the scar on your shoulder?"

"Missionary Ridge."

"What about the one on your hand?"

"Petersburg. And I got the one on my gut fighting over a crooked poker game in a Laredo whorehouse. Now unbutton that shirt and come over here so I can take a better look at my newest piece of property."

"I'm not your property, Baron Cain."

"That isn't what the law says, Mrs. Cain. Women belong to the men who marry them."

"Keep telling yourself that if it makes you happy. But I don't belong to anybody except myself."

He rose and walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps. "Let's get something straight right from the start. I own you. And from now on, you'll do exactly what I say. If I want you to polish my boots, you'll polish them. If I tell you to muck out my stable, you'll do that, too. And when I want you in my bed, you'd better be flat on your back with your legs spread by the time I have my belt unbuckled."

His words should have made her stomach churn in fear, but there was something too calculated about them. He was deliberately trying to break her, and she wasn't going to let him do it.

"I'm terrified," she drawled.

She hadn't given him the reaction he wanted, so he came after her again. "When you married me, you lost your last bit of freedom. Now I can do anything I want with you, short of killing you. And if I'm not too obvious about it, I can probably do that, too."

"If I don't get you first," she retorted.

"Not a chance."

She tried again to reason with him. "I did a terrible thing. It was wrong, but you have my money. It's triple what it should cost you to rebuild that mill, so let's put an end to this."

"Some things don't have a price." He rested one shoulder against a bedpost. "This should amuse you…"

She regarded him warily. Somehow she didn't think so.

"I'd already made up my mind not to send you back to New York. I was going to tell you in the morning."

She felt sick. She shook her head, hoping it wasn't true.

"Ironic, isn't it?" he said. "I didn't want to hurt you like that. But everything's changed now, and I don't much care about that." He reached out and began unfastening the buttons of her shirt.

She stood perfectly still, her earlier spark of confidence evaporating. "Don't do this."

"It's too late." He parted the shirt and gazed down at her breasts.

She tried not to say it, but she couldn't help it. "I'm afraid."

"I know."

"Will it hurt?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes tight. He removed her shirt. She stood naked before him.

Tonight would be the worst, she told herself. When it was done, he'd have lost his power over her.

He caught her under the knees and carried her to his bed. She turned her head away as he began to strip off his clothing. Moments later, he lowered himself to the side of the bed. It sagged beneath his weight.

Something twisted inside Cain at the sight of her turned away from him. Her closed eyes… The resignation in that heart-shaped face… What had it cost her to admit her fear? Damn it, he didn't want her like this. He wanted her spitting and fighting. He wanted her cursing him and sparking his anger as only she knew how.

He cupped her knees to prod a reaction from her, but even then she didn't fight him. He pushed her legs apart and shifted his weight to kneel between them. Then he looked down at the secret part of her, bathed in lamplight.

She lay still as he separated the dark, silken threads with his fingers. His wild rose of the deep wood. Petals within petals. Protectively folded around the heart of her. His stomach knotted at the sight. He knew from the afternoon at the pond how small she was, how tight. He was flooded with a damning sense of tenderness.

From the corner of his eye he saw one delicate hand curl into a fist on the counterpane. He waited for her to swing at him, to fight him for what he was doing. Wished for it to happen. But she didn't move, and her very defenselessness undid him.

With a groan, he lay down and pulled her into his arms. She was trembling. Guilt as powerful as his desire ate at him. He'd never treated a woman so callously. This was part of the madness that had claimed him. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He held her against his bare chest and stroked the damp locks of her hair. As he soothed her, his own desire raged, but he didn't give in to it, not until her trembling finally stopped.

Cain's arm felt solid and ironically comforting around her. She heard his breathing slow, but she knew he wasn't asleep, no more than she was. Moonlight silvered the quiet room, and she felt a strange sense of calm. Something about the quiet, something about the hell they'd been through and the hell that no doubt lay ahead, made questions possible.

"Why do you hate me so much? Even before the cotton mill. From the day I came back to Risen Glory."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he answered her. "I never hated you."

"I was destined to hate whoever inherited Risen Glory," she said.

"It always comes back to Risen Glory, doesn't it? Do you love this plantation so much?"

"More than anything. Risen Glory is all I've ever had. Without it, I'm not anything."

He brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek. "You're a beautiful woman, and you have courage."

"How can you say that after what I did?"

"I guess we all do what we have to."

"Like forcing this marriage on me?"

"Like that." He was still for a moment. "I'm not sorry, Kit. No more than you are."

Her tension returned. "Why didn't you go ahead and do what you were going to? I wouldn't have stopped you."

"Because I want you willing. Willing and as hungry for me as I am for you."

She was too conscious of their nudity, and she turned away from him. "That won't ever happen."

She expected him to get angry. Instead, he propped himself up on the pillows and gazed down at her without attempting to touch her. "You have a passionate nature. I've tasted it in your kisses. Don't be afraid of it."

"I don't want a passionate nature. It's wrong for a woman."

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody knows it. When Mrs. Templeton talked to us about Eve's Shame, said that—"

"Eve's what?"

"Eve's Shame. You know."

"Good God." He sat up in bed. "Kit, do you know exactly what happens between a man and a woman?"

"I've seen horses."

"Horses aren't humans." He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. "Look at me. Even though you hate me, we're married now, and there's no way I'm keeping my hands off you. But I want you to know what's happening between us. I don't want to scare you again."

Patiently, in language that was simple and direct, he told her about her own body and about his. And then he told her what happened when they were joined.

When he was done, he got out of bed and walked naked over to the table where he picked up his brandy glass. Then he turned and stood quietly, letting her satisfy the curiosity she wouldn't confess to.

Kit's eyes drank in his body, so clearly illuminated in the moon-drenched room. She saw beauty of a kind she'd never before witnessed, a beauty that was lean and muscular, that spoke of strength and hardness and things she didn't entirely understand. Her eyes went to the center of him He quickened under her gaze, and her apprehension returned.

He must have sensed her reaction, because he set down his glass and returned to her. This time his eyes held a challenge, and even though she was afraid, she'd never refused a challenge, not when it came from him.

The corner of his mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. Then he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. His touch was feather-light and soft, his mouth closed. There was no hard, probing tongue to remind her of the other, less friendly invasion that would soon take place.

Some of her tension dissolved. His lips found a path to her ear. He kissed the valley below it and then took the lobe with its tiny, silver stud gently between his teeth and teased it with his lips.

Her eyes drifted shut at the sensations he was arousing in her, then snapped open again when he clasped her wrists and stretched them above her head.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, trailing his fingers down the soft underside of her arms. "It'll be good. I promise you." He paused at the crook of her elbow, brushing his thumb back and forth across the sensitive inner surface.

Everything that had passed between them should have made her wary, but as he traced delicate circles in the quivering hollows under her arms, she found the past evaporating and the exquisite sensations of the present taking her prisoner.