Louisa Rawlings (53 page)

“But you risk all to be here,” he said in wonder. “And still you came?”
 

“I have nothing without you.”
 

“Oh, God,” he groaned, sinking to his knees before her. “How I’ve wronged you. My sweet Rouge…”
 

She put her fingers to his lips. “No. Don’t speak. Only love me. Make love to me tonight, and hold back the dawn.”
 

He got to his feet and pulled her into his arms. He dabbed at her tear-stained face, then bent his mouth to hers. His kiss was more wonderful than she had remembered it. He kissed her gently; then, as his passion grew, he deepened his kiss. His tongue sought the sweet honey of her mouth, invading that warm recess, exploring her own sensitive tongue until she trembled with ecstasy. His arms held her tightly, molding her body against his own. She was enveloped, surrounded, possessed by him. They stood for a long time, kissing, lost in the delight of each other’s arms and lips. At last he lifted his head and laughed softly. His eyes were filled with relief and wonder—like a man who’s been saved from a dark fate. “Why do you always run away in such elaborate dress? ’Tis a challenge to deal with every hook and button!”
 

She smiled, remembering, her heart bursting with love. “At least my gown is dry this time. And I’ll not try to scratch you.”
 

“Well, then.” He began to undress her with tender hands, stopping after each piece of clothing was removed to kiss the bit of flesh uncovered. Her knees were thoroughly kissed when the stockings went; her forearms were assaulted after the gown had dropped to the floor; her bosom, its lace tucker discarded, was fair game to his burning mouth. At last she stood in her chemise, her heart pounding, her body quivering in anticipation.
 

He looked at her, the laughter gone from his eyes. “Though you fought me,” he said, “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I felt almost ashamed to look at you. You were so feverish and helpless. So defenseless to lustful betrayal. It was frightening.”
 

She kissed him softly, her hands going around his neck to stroke the soft tufts of hair at his nape. “Yet you made a joke of it. How you held me in your arms to keep me from shivering.”
 

“Foolish bravado. I confess it now. It was agony to hold your soft nakedness to me and do nothing.” He groaned and shook his head. “It was the longest hour I ever spent.”
 

“Poor Pierre.” She began to unbutton his shirt, glorying in the feel of his firm muscles, the masculine buds of his chest that hardened to her touch. She bent her lips to the curly thatch of hair, the soft spot on the edge of his collarbone that always made him shiver and twitch.
 

He growled suddenly and pushed her away. “No more!” he said hoarsely. “No more. I’ve waited too long.” He tore the chemise from her and swept her into his arms, carrying her to bed. He put her down abruptly and stripped off his own clothing. He lay beside her and stroked her breasts roughly, cupping the soft orbs in his firm hands, circling the nipples with his thumbs. She shivered. His touch was strong, possessive, demanding. His mouth took hers again in a rapturous kiss. She was overwhelmed, swept away by the force of his passion.
 

His hand dropped lower. She gasped as his fingers penetrated, gently at first, then with a passionate intensity that took her breath away. She writhed beneath him, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth surrendering to his, while his fingers worked her into a frenzy. Her body throbbed at his loving assault, pulsing with desire, yearning for the final fulfillment. At last, when she thought she couldn’t endure another moment of such sweet torment, he withdrew his fingers and pulled her under him. He kissed her again and thrust into her. She clung to him, filled with glorious agony, his fierce possession a testament to their love. They were one body, joined, entwined, moving together in a pounding rhythm of love and ecstasy. She was his. Now and forevermore. Trembling with violent spasms, he cried out her name, then stilled. At the same moment she felt her own body yield in a warm tide of blessed release.
 

After a few moments, he rolled over onto his back and pulled her into his arms. She sighed and burrowed against him, stroking her cheek against the soft hairs of his chest. He laughed in gentle amusement. “You’re like a cat.”
 

She purred softly. “No cat was ever as contented as I.” She kissed his chest and sighed.
 

“What are you thinking of?”
 

“Nothing. And everything.” Lovely, unfocused thoughts that drifted in and out of her consciousness, filled with warmth and love and happiness. And something else. She raised her head and looked at him. “I’m thinking that I’m hungry!”
 

“You didn’t eat dinner?”
 

“Not dinner, nor yet supper! Only a very small breakfast before I ran away.”
 

He sat up. “Why then, I should be honored that running away to me was more important than your food.”
 

“You’re more important than anything,” she said tenderly. Then she made a face. “Except for my stomach, at this moment!”
 

“There’s nothing to eat here,” he said. “I’ve been dining elsewhere. But I have some bread and cheese, and a little cold mutton in my saddle. Wine, too, I think.” He climbed out of bed and pulled on his breeches. She leaned up on one elbow and watched him, admiring anew the strength and grace of his lithe body. He caught her looking at him and laughed. “Woman, I expect you to work for your supper. I’ll fetch the food, and bed my horse for the night. But it’s getting cold, and it will soon be dark. See if you still remember how to build a fire here.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Then maybe I’ll feed you.
If
the fire pleases me.” He sat down to put on his shoes and stockings.
 

She smiled slyly, her cat’s eyes crinkling at the corners. She’d be revenged for his teasing words! She eased herself out of bed and walked past him, brushing her bare breasts against his naked flesh. She knelt in front of the hearth, aware that he’d stopped what he was doing to look at her. Languidly she stretched her arms above her head and smoothed her tangled curls with her fingers. She heard him draw in a tortured breath.
 

“What the devil are you doing?” he said.
 

She turned and smiled, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. She saw his hungry eyes follow the movement. “I’m trying to light a fire,” she said softly.
 

“You teasing hussy! Without your chemise?”
 

“I don’t need my chemise. No one’s about.” She reached for a handful of kindling, purposely twisting her body around so her full breasts were in his view. “Weren’t you about to get the food?” she asked innocently. She leaned forward to stack the wood in the fireplace, then squealed in surprise as his hands went around her and clasped her bosom.
 

He nuzzled the side of her neck and kissed her ear. “You’ll pay for this later, you know.”
 

“Pish tush. Perhaps I’ll let you back into my bed.
If
you please me. In the meantime, I want supper.” She giggled and let him kiss her again, then turned her attention back to the fire. “Is this all the wood there is?” she asked in all seriousness, as he returned to his dressing.
 

“It should do for the night. If it’s cold in the morning, I’ll chop a bit more, so you can dress before a warm fire.” He eyed her with a mixture of passion and amusement, watching as—still naked—she piled up the firewood, fetched a flint, lit the kindling. “That is, if you intend to dress, mademoiselle!”
 

She smiled. “Not tonight!” She waved her hand at him. “Now off with you. Bring the food. And a bucket of water. Those plates look as if they haven’t been washed in weeks, name of heaven!”
 

“I need a wife,” he said gently.
 

“Don’t,” she whispered, the tears springing to her eyes. “I want to forget everything except you and me.” She brushed at her lashes. “Now begone.”
 

By the time he had fed his horse, brought in a bucket of water, and fetched the food, she had a bright and cheery fire going, and was setting the table for supper. Dusk had fallen; the cottage was cozy and warm. Her safe island against the world outside. Pierre laughed to see her still bustling about completely naked. She didn’t care. Somehow her formal gown—one of Villeneuve’s gifts—had become the symbol of all that she wanted to forget tonight. If only for a few hours, she felt free in her nakedness.
 

“I didn’t find any candles,” she said.
 

“I used the last.” He frowned, thinking. “Wait. The fire is bright. And besides,” he grinned, “you never shared
my
bed!” He went into the mill room and returned a moment later with the straw
paillasse
that had been his bed in the past. He put it in front of the hearth, took the plates and cups from the table to set on it, and laid out the food. He bowed with a flourish. “Mademoiselle. Will you sup?”
 

They sat cross-legged in front of the fire, eating and laughing by turns. Silly, innocent children. Once, laughing at something he’d said, Rouge spilled her wine on her bosom. Pierre put down his own cup and pulled her into his arms, swearing that her goblet was better than his. While she giggled, then sighed with passion at the heat of his mouth, he bent to her breasts, his tongue dabbing at the droplets of wine. At last he released her, his eyes glittering with renewed desire. “I’m not dressed for this supper,” he said. His voice was husky with passion. Quickly he shed his clothes and returned to her, holding her in his warm embrace while they finished the last of their wine. They stared at the fire together, caught in its spell and the magic of the moment. At length Pierre stirred and sighed deeply. “I can’t believe you ran away to come to me.”
 

“Why should it surprise you? You were a witness to my wild impulses on more than one occasion.”
 

“Impulses that you regretted, I remember you said.”
 

“No. Not this time. Whatever happens, I’ll not regret this night.”
 

“And your husband?”
 

“I don’t even know him. I’ve never met him.”
 

“Why are you marrying him, then? Did he buy you?”
 

“Oh, Pierre. Don’t put it that way.”
 

“Did you take his money?”
 

“Yes, but…”

“Then he bought you.” He said it without condemnation. “And is Sans-Souci shining again?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Then you’re happy.”
 

“I’ll never be happy again,” she whispered.
 

“He must have paid a good price for you.”
 

She moved away from his arms. Reality had a way of invading even the tiniest of islands. “Why are you asking me these things?” she said, anguished.
 

“Did he pay a good price for you?” he insisted.
 

She stared at him. She
had
been bought. For two hundred thousand livres. Somehow the size of it made it all the more shameful; the most successful whores earned the most money. “It wasn’t very much,” she lied. “A few thousand livres. But it was more than a miller could afford.”
 

She saw a shadow cross his eyes, as though her words had put a wall between them. “Pierre…” she began.
 

“No,” he said quickly. “You were right. Tonight we forget everything. Except this.” He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her.
 

Her hands stroked the smooth flesh of his shoulders. His back. She gasped, feeling the skin on his back, ridged with the scars of his beating. She began to weep. “Your poor back. Will you ever forgive me? I should have guessed Girard would do something. I should never have left until I’d seen you safely away from there.”
 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he growled. “It was my own pride that goaded him into it. Because he had the temerity to claim you.”
 

“But if I hadn’t been there…” She clung to him, her arms holding him as though she would never let him go. So much to say. So many hurts to be forgiven, on both sides. And so little time. “Oh, Pierre,” she cried, “what are we to do?”
 

He smoothed the curls back from her forehead, kissed away her tears. “Don’t talk,” he said. “Tonight was made for this. For love. We both have much to speak of. But we’ll talk in the morning.” He lay with her on the
paillasse
before the warmth of the fire, and made love to her until they were sated and weak with exhaustion.
 

Rouge smiled at him sleepily. Her body felt as though it were glowing, warm and content. “I haven’t the strength even to stand up.”
 

“No need,” he said. He got to his feet and lifted her into his arms, carrying her gently to the bed. He climbed in beside her and covered them both with the coverlet, then pulled her into his arms. “Rouge?” he whispered.
 

Her eyes were closing, her body drifting on a sweet tide. She tried to answer him, but it was too difficult. She had traveled too far toward sleep. She heard his voice once more before she sank into oblivion.