Lessons in French (30 page)

What difference did it make? He'd not yet brought himself to mention anything about

putting her affairs in order. His maman didn't have any affairs that he knew of anyway—

there were those spiritual matters that the Reverend Hartman had been so eager to

address, of course, but he could leave that to her priest. She didn't appear as if she were

going to fail within a short time. She seemed to him to be improving each night that he

visited her, with more energy and strength, but the doctor had warned him to take no

comfort from that.

He sighed heavily, standing up. His nightclothes were in the bedchamber, but he'd sent

the candle away with the boots, so he pulled his shirt over his head and left his clothes by

the fire in the parlor. He padded to the closed door. The bedroom was pitch-black, the air

frigid. He moved quickly across the cold floor, feeling his way by the faint light of the

fire through the door. The bed curtains were already closed, a good sign that the maid

would have put a hot brick between the sheets. He climbed hurriedly into the warm

cavern of the bed.

He froze in the motion of pulling the bedclothes over himself. A f lash of alarm went

through him as someone turned over—someone waiting in the bed—he reached

instinctively for his pistol, found himself naked, and then just as suddenly relaxed, lying

back on the pillow with a low, surprised laugh.

"Callie?" he whispered, feeling toward her in the dark. Her warm, sweet hay scent filled

the close confines of the bed; her hair was spread loose over the counterpane. He touched

her shoulder—shocked to find it bare—and she responded with a sleeper's sigh, a delicate

sound that spoke to his body like a wild f lute in a dark, beckoning forest.

He was instantly af lame for her. He had kept it brutally at bay until now, using every

mental trick he'd ever learned from his grandfather and the considerably more crude

methods he'd discovered on his own. He'd always prided himself on his self-control

concerning women. In the circles he frequented, it had served him well on more than one

occasion. At seven and twenty, he had no bastards or vengeful mistresses to trouble him.

He conducted his love affairs the same way he conducted his business, with cold caution

and ruthless disinterest.

But it had cost him. Until this moment he had not known how much. He carried always

a slow simmer of lust—that was as much a part of his life as breathing. The loneliness he

dealt with. He thought he did. He could just see a coppery glint, an outline of her hair

riding down in a lovely curve to the shape of her hips, and suddenly it was as if every

time he had denied himself was compounded and concentrated, years of turning away, of

sleeping alone, all coalesced into this one warm girl in his bed.

He held himself still, staring into the dark toward her, trying to bring sense and distance

to the hot physical flood that engulfed him. If this was an offer, it was an unexpected one.

She should have been at the Green Dragon for the night—he was sure he'd explained that

clearly to her. Callie had always been careful to attend to every detail of her role in their

adventures—she was too nervous of making a mistake to do otherwise.

He didn't think she'd misunderstood him. And Lilly wasn't here to provide propriety.

But then, Lilly belonged to Lady Callista, not to Madame Malempré. And he'd said he

wouldn't be back until morning. He was having difficulty thinking rationally with the feel

of her hair drifting over his bare arm, the soft shape of her body pressing down the

feather bed. He ached with a longing that was lust and something beyond lust, almost a

sickness of desire. He tried to reason it, to tell himself that whatever the circumstance or

error, he'd best get up and leave the bed, but his mind wasn't making much headway

against his body.

He turned abruptly onto his back and lay staring upward, listening to her soft breath. He

should sleep in the sitting room. He could close the door and ring for coffee—roust the

poor boots off his cot again and annoy the kitchen staff. Or just dress and go down stairs

to the parlor.

He ran his hand over his face and then thrust it through the curtains, testing the freezing

air outside. He drew back quickly. The bed was thoroughly warmed where she lay, an

invitation drawing him near. He moved a little closer to her, pulling the counterpane over

her bare arm where her skin had cooled in the open air. She stirred but did not waken. He

tucked it around her, trying to be protective, or something like it. He didn't want her to be

cold.

He laughed silently at his own excuses, turning fully toward her and putting his arm

across her shoulders. She felt indescribably soft, moving a little, settling into him. There

was a thin slip of silk between them, some low-cut confection that pressed tight across

her breasts. He could feel them, their tips taut against the inside of his arm.

He was going to die. He really thought it possible. He knew a number of ways to make

love safely, to please a woman without undue risk, but he wanted to fumble now like a

untaught boy, so hot he could not think past the fact that he could feel her nipples. His

ears were roaring. Memories of erotic kisses they had shared engulfed him, instants of

passion that he had carried in his memory for years, the images he used to take his own

pleasure.

He held himself very still and ran his fingertip around one small nub, feeling it rise in

response. Her leg stretched out, sliding along his as she sighed in her sleep. She had

wanted more this afternoon; he told himself he would satisfy her now. Gratify her and

please her and go no further.

He bent his forehead against the nape of her neck, his mouth and jaw locked in an

ironic smile. Self controlled lover that he was, he was trembling, his full member pressed

against her just below her buttocks. He'd never been in a bed with Callie. He doubted he

was able to move without losing mastery of himself.

She stirred, rolling over toward him. He pulled back, feeling her awaken, expecting her

to jerk away and cry out in surprise. But she only stiffened a little, holding herself still.

His hand was resting on her shoulder.

"Trev," she mumbled drowsily.

"Wicked Callie," he whispered.

She came into his embrace suddenly and fully, making a thankful little sound, as if

she'd been having a nightmare and awoken to find safety. He drew her tight against him

in spite of his arousal, touched to his heart by the simple way she reached for him.

"I couldn't leave," she said, her face buried in his throat. "I didn't know what to do."

"It's all right," he said against her temple.

"Major Sturgeon followed me. He's taken a room here."

"Meddlesome devil." He might have been alarmed by this news at some other time, but

he had scant interest in Sturgeon just now.

She held him close, but he could feel a change come into her, a dawning awareness of

the state of his body, of their entanglement together. He felt her swallow.

"But I thought—you weren't to come back tonight," she whispered.

"Mmmm," he said, nuzzling her face. "Do you want me to go away?"

She let out an unsteady breath, a half-surprised, half-scared flutter of sound. It made

him want to roll her onto her back and take her fiercely, all caution tossed away to the

cold night outside.

For a long moment she was silent. He could feel her heart beating, the light touch of her

hair falling across his skin.

"I should go," he said reluctantly, when she didn't speak.

Her arms tightened. "No," she said in a small voice. "Stay."

His breath left his chest. He almost wished that she had banished him. He wasn't in

command of himself. "You want to kill me," he muttered, only half in jest.

She shook her head, a movement in the dark against his throat. "I want… everything,"

she whispered, the words a mere breath of air on his skin. "I don't want to stop this time."

Trev lay very still, closing his eyes as a wave of white-hot urgency possessed him. He

turned onto his back, his arm f lung wide, a low laugh in his chest. "It would be heaven,

wouldn't it?"

"Do you think so?" she whispered, and he could see her face in his mind, her soft, shy

eyes looking up at him like a wild deer watching from the wood.

He laughed aloud. "My God, Callie, have a little mercy. We'd better not start it. A man

can only go so far and contain himself."

"Oh," she said.

It was not that she sounded disappointed or miffed or offended, the way any number of

women of his past had sounded when he had tactfully refused their very agreeable offers.

She didn't weep or withdraw. There was only that single small syllable she spoke, but he

heard all the damage, the hurt they must have given her, those bastards who had left her

standing at the altar or alone in the line of chairs against the wall, all their excuses and

lies, those blind, blind, stupid bastards who never saw what was right before their eyes.

Here he lay, burning, and she thought he didn't want her. He could hear it in her voice,

feel it in the faint slackening of her fingers on his arm.

He sat up on his elbow. "It's not a good idea," he said, trying to explain. "There are

risks. We're not wed." He felt helpless. "What if I… what if you… what if we…" His

voice trailed off. A green boy would have explained it better, but now he was drowning

in visions of Callie carrying his child. He took a deep breath. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, of course," she said quickly. "I understand."

"Oh Christ." He fell back on the pillow. "
Ma vie,
you don't understand." He swore.

"There's so much you don't understand."

"Yes I do. Truly. It's all right." She had taken her hand away. "I know what you mean."

"Marry me," he said suddenly. "Callie."

She drew back. "Marry?"

He would reckon it all out somehow. He'd tell her everything. And she'd take him

anyway, and they would go to France or America or Italy. He'd buy her all the prize bulls

she wanted, and they'd make love in haystacks all over the world. He realized from her

shocked reaction that he'd been deplorably blunt. "Of course I meant—Lady Callista, will

you do me the honor—"

"No!" she exclaimed, the bed rocking as she sat up. "You're very obliging, sir," she said

in distress, "but please, you must not."

He sat up also. "Callie, I'm in earnest. If you would consider…" Consider marriage to a

convicted criminal. Consider fleeing the country and never coming back. Consider tying

herself for life to a fraud. She thought he had vast estates, a place in society, titles that

were more than pretty words and air. He trailed off, staring uneasily into the darkness

toward her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "We wouldn't suit. But I do thank you, Trev." Her voice

was sincere, a little shaky. "Truly. It's very kind of you to offer."

He ran his hand through his hair. It seemed like a blow, one of the lethal sort that didn't

hurt at first, only sent a strange shock through the body, a few moments of numbness

before the pain would come roaring in. All he could think was that he hadn't even told her

the worst yet, and already she said no.

"Well," he said at last.

She leaned down, searching for his lips. Her hair fell over his chest as she kissed him

with a shy tenderness, a questioning, as if she weren't sure of his response. Still floating

in the numbed delay before reality, he put his hands up and cupped her face. Ferociously

he kissed her, angrily, pulling her down on top of him. He thrust his fingers into the mass

of her hair and carried her over onto her back in one swift move. Cold air washed his

bared shoulders.

He held himself over her, his mouth hovering just above hers. "You want it all?" he

breathed. He felt wild now, unreasonable. "You want me?"

She made a faint nod in the darkness. He wanted her with a need that had the blood

hammering in his veins. He felt her lips part. Her body was delicate and soft beneath him,

freed of all the petticoats and corsets and limits.

He slid his hand down the shape of her, kissing her deeply at the same time, feeling her

back arch toward him as he drew up the silk. She was so beautiful; he could imagine what

she would look like in the light, with her hair loose, with her nether curls of pretty golden

rose—he knew that much of her, glimpses of bright curls against white skin. He

remembered it, he ran his fingers through it, drawing a willing whimper from her lips.

She pulled at him, opening her legs as he touched her, and he lost all strength of mind.

He ought to give her time, to play and coax, but he was desperate now. The anger had

disintegrated; he had to be inside her, part of her. He kissed her throat, breathing the scent

of her deeply into his chest. He would have tried to be gentle, but she pushed herself up

against him as if she couldn't wait—the sensation of her beneath him, spreading for him,

went to his brain like a firestorm, burning away everything in his mind but her body as he

mounted her.

"Trev," she gasped. He felt her flinch, but he thrust hard and deep, reveling with a

primitive pleasure in being the first. He would have been, so long ago—he should have