Lions and Lace (34 page)

"You're talking about my wife!"

"If she's your wife, then make her your wife!"

Trevor and Eagan stared at each other, locked in a silent battle. Alana was just about to intercede when Trevor said in an ominous tone, "Get out, Eagan. Get out now."

Eagan complied. He shot Alana an apologetic look,
then
stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Left alone with her husband, Alana heard the ensuing silence like the boom
of a
cannon. Trevor turned to her, and the room seemed to echo with his rage. She was aghast at the emotion in his eyes. Part of her quailed at the fury she found there, but another part of her, the part that had paced in her room all night and longed for a husband who loved her, rejoiced. He was jealous, wildly jealous. If their relationship held any promise, it was in that streak of possessiveness that had flared when he caught her in Eagan's embrace.

There was a long foreboding pause while he stared at her. He seemed to be contemplating his next move and going through all the possibilities before making his decision. But he was Trevor Byrne Sheridan, and once his decision was made, he acted. "Go to my room, Alana," he said quietly.

Her eyes locked with his. She knew what he was thinking. His jealousy gave her new hope, but the time for what
he intended now was wrong. He was only accepting Eagan's challenge. He didn't want to make love to her because he cared for her but because of the man he was. She could see it in his eyes. He'd never let a dare go unanswered.

"No," she said just as quietly, just as firmly.

He nodded. Not a good sign. "You're my wife, Alana, my legal wife, wed in the Catholic Church. I've rights. Go into my room, or I'll get a policeman off the avenue to drag you in there."

"If you do this, there'll be no annulment."

"Then there'll be no annulment."

She stared at him, everything she wanted within her grasp yet so impossibly far away. If she refused his demand, she might never have another chance to salvage this marriage, but if she surrendered under these circumstances, would he be anything but cold and indifferent?

She thought about all that had happened to her this evening and the subsequent revelations. She had believed she loved this man. And when she looked at him, her gaze caressing his dark hair, his lean jaw, his angry eyes, she knew she did love him.
Just glancing at the cane in his hand made her know it.
To most, that walking stick represented fear and limitation. But she could see only strength. That stick was proof that he'd fought fear and limitation to become what he was, a rich and powerful man.

Perhaps it was only his struggle that touched her, but when she raised her gaze to him and saw the gruff, distant Irishman who had wed her, she no longer cared about the reasons for her feelings. She knew she loved him, and she knew that she'd move heaven and earth to make him love her.

"Go, Alana," he said.

"Is this only because of Eagan?" she whispered, making one last attempt at self-preservation.

"No," he rasped.

She looked at him, knowing she was going to believe him. Slowly, she walked to his room. Behind her, she heard the door close with a click that seemed to resonate for an eternity. An eternity seemed to pass before she summoned the courage to look at him.

He stood with his back against the door staring at her as if methodically planning her seduction. She hadn't noticed before, but he was still clothed in his evening attire, his jet studs still on his shirtfront, his white pique vest still buttoned.

In her peignoir, she felt naked standing in front of him, and his first command stopped her heart. "Go to the bed."

She turned frightened eyes to his looming tester bed. The chambermaid had long since prepared it, the creamy silk sheets pulled back forming a neat triangle to one side. Hesitating, she met his eyes. His dark hazel stare confronted her. He was not going to back down. She took the long journey to the bed.

"Take off your dressing gown."

Her hand protectively covered the column of buttons at her throat.
Though
she wanted this, everything seemed wrong. There was no wine, no roses,
no
seduction. Instead there were terse commands, long shadows from the flickering of the gaslights, and her husband's unwavering stare, dangerous and enticing.

"The
dressing gown."

She lowered her gaze to the wispy garment of peach silk. The dressing gown hid the sheer nightgown he'd bought for her trousseau. If she took off her dressing gown, she'd almost be standing before him naked. Her gaze caught his. A rush of longing swept through her. It was now or never. It was love or loss. Reluctantly, her fingers began to undo the buttons at her throat. The garment slipped off her arms into a shimmering puddle at her feet. Clothed in the sheerest silk the color of her skin, her breath quickened, and she watched him from the shadows of the enormous tester bed.

Taking his own torturous time, starting at the bottom where the hem of her nightgown trailed behind her in a small frothy train, his gaze moved upward to the suggestion of shapely calves and lush thighs alluringly molded by the translucent silk. From his expression, the womanly curve of hips was apparently approved before he took in the silhouetted nip of her waist. Hungry now, his gaze wanted more, but the show was interrupted by her crossed arms. "Put your arms down," he whispered in a harsh steady voice.

She didn't move, didn't even look at him. She just stood there, frozen with fear and an inexpressible need. They'd been playing a game of dare, and she'd gone as far as she could.

To equal the score, Trevor leaned his stick against the door and walked toward her, his gait stiff and uneven. Letting her see him like this was his way of sharing an intimacy, and her guard came down a little as she watched him go to a table near the bed and pour himself a drink from one of the crystal decanters.

The scent of the cheap raw whiskey burned her nostrils. She wondered if he was going to pour her a drink too, and she hoped so, not only because it might strengthen her but because drinking together would be another intimacy shared.

He took two large swallows before turning. She was disappointed to see he had only one glass. But then he held the glass out, his eyes beckoning her to take it. Her hand trembled as she reached for it. Sharing the glass with him sent an ominous tingle of excitement down her spine. This was only a foretaste of things to come, of what they would eventually share.

Her lips touched the rim, and she relished her small taste of the whiskey. It was as strong as she remembered, but it warmed her, and the flavor reminded her of his kiss. The whiskey tasted of him.

She handed the glass back to him. He accepted it and looked down at her, his eyes taking in everything he couldn't see before. Her arms weren't covering her any longer, and her breasts thrust against the mist of peach silk, her soft dusky nipples in plain view.

His eyes darkened, and he took the rest of the glass in one gulp. Grimacing, for the whiskey had to burn like acid, he slammed the glass down on the night table. She was just about to clutch her arms to her chest again when he whispered, "No." He laced her hands in his and kissed her, not permitting her to fight, not permitting her to touch him.

They kissed, his mouth taking hers in a wild ritual of domination. She could barely breathe, but he seemed to have the power to take away her need for air, leaving her with only her need for him. She tried to touch him, but he wouldn't let her, forcing her hands to her side until she ached with the desire to cup his handsome face in her hands.

"Acknowledge me," he groaned against her hair when he pulled his lips from hers.

Confused, she shook her head, not understanding and too drugged from his kiss to respond.

"Say my name," he insisted. "Not Eagan . . . not Anson . . .
my
name."

"Trevor," she gasped.

"That's it.
Tá
se
agat
anis.
"
After that enigmatic sentence, he released her hands, thrust his arm beneath her bottom, and lowered her to the bed.

His lips and body crushed her into the softness of the feather mattress, and his hand roamed, but not where she thought it would. Bracing herself for his touch on her breast, she was shocked when he moved lower, rubbing his thumb through the peach silk across the triangle of deep gold hair that covered her womanhood. She gasped, but the sound was muffled by the heat of his tongue. Shuddering, she pulled back from his exquisite torture, but there was no escape. He'd captured her, body and soul, her entire being in his hands, a fragile butterfly to be crushed or stroked according to his whim.

Pulling the sheer gown above her thighs, his touch went
deeper until he elicited an unwilling response. Overwhelmed, she
lay
beneath him, the well-bred, high-born girl aching to let this Irishman master her body. His method was ceaseless until she nearly sobbed with pent-up excitement, but she fought her desire, almost hating him when he toyed with secret places she hadn't known existed.

Then he slowed. He pulled off a stud from his shirtfront and pulled down her gown from her shoulder. Inch by wretched inch, he undressed himself,
then
undressed her. When his vest and shirt lay in a heap on the carpet and his trousers were unbuttoned, her gown was but a small band around her chest. He amazed her with his control. The last thing he needed to remove was his trousers, and he did this gracefully, sliding them down his hips without even sitting up.

He rolled naked to her side, and she expected he would rid her of her clothing with the same exacting expertise. But a spark flared in his eyes when he looked at her, a spark that seemed to burn away his control. Suddenly he no longer took his time. His hand stroked her skin, golden in the gaslight, and his eyes met hers, her own as dark with passion as with fear. He pushed her gown away from her breasts, and those same hands that had been gentle ripped the gown in two.

The violence frightened her, but he saw her stiffening and knew the cure for it. His mouth drew on hers, and he made her forget everything except how his skin burned against hers, how the hair on his chin and chest and thighs dragged sensually over her smooth body, how his tongue tasted of that potent unforgettable whiskey.

A lady, she had believed the liaison between a man and woman in bed was something akin to holding hands in the parlor. She'd dreamed of her husband-to-be and had always thought their joining would be soothing, gentle, and quiet. But she had never imagined her husband as Trevor Sheridan, had never imagined anything could be like this.

He took her with a passion as raw and strong as his drink.
When he wanted her, he gave no time for persuasion but joined with her in one swift movement, his expression almost expecting a cry of surprise and pain as he entered.

But she didn't make a sound. She watched him, his wild, primal movements exhilarating her and terrifying her in a single, never-before-experienced emotion. When he bent down and covered her aching nipple with his hot wet mouth, rocking furiously within her, the feeling spun out of control until she craved him with a passion she knew she would never feel for another.

He lifted his head, and his mouth again captured hers, creating more heat between her thighs. The pleasure he gave her was like a band of rubber being pulled until it snapped and she fell, twisting in the air until he caught her, his hand beneath her hips to hold her closer, to make her pleasure complete.

"Trevor," she moaned, chanting his name in surrender.

It drove him over the edge. He seized her and bit out the word,
"
Jeysus
,
" then fell against her, sated.

Lying beneath him in the long quiet minutes afterward, Alana impulsively reached up and touched his cheek. With what she knew now, the questions for her had become simple. Could she live without her dreams?
Without waltzes and white houses and simplicity?
She smiled a bittersweet smile. The answer was obvious. It was yes. Absolutely yes, for to live any other life would mean to live without this wild, unforgivably brazen Irishman, and that was impossible. There were no other men like Trevor Sheridan. It was he, or it was no one. And she'd already lived with no one. After her parents had died and she lost Christal, she'd had three long wretched years without anyone to love. Now that she loved him, she would do so with a passion she would take to her grave.