Midnight Flame (14 page)

He stopped his thrusting movements and lay still atop her. “There is much more to come,
chérie.
Much more pleasure.” He quieted her protest with a deep kiss that left her clinging and breathless, wanting him to stop but now growing aroused when he started to gently grind his hips in a circular movement against her. Spears of white heat built by degrees in the center of her womanhood, threatening to flare and inundate her in flames of ecstasy. The pressure became so pleasurable, so unbearable, that Laurel knew she must be released or go insane. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him close against her, so close they felt as one, and she would have sworn that his frantic heartbeat matched her own.

“Please, please,” she cried, not knowing what she called for, but he knew. He tensed, then withdrew for a second before thrusting into her and causing the breath to leave her body. The white-hot heat that had flared within her loins now exploded in a golden, shimmering liquid and flowed through every nerve and artery of her body. Without realizing it, she writhed against him, and in that instant she felt the throbbing warmth of his release.

Late the next morning the gentle patter of rain awoke Laurel. She stretched catlike beneath the blanket and yawned as her emerald gaze settled on the gray sky outside the window. Translucent drops hung from the eaves of the cabin and clung to the iron bars before slithering down the black length to the window sill. For the first time in two days she felt strong enough to sit up and survey the scene outside. Trees swayed like graceful dancers in the breeze, their limbs swathed in skirts of wet Spanish moss, and the steady stance of an egret on the opposite side of the bayou reminded her that she was denied the freedom the bird enjoyed.

Laurel sighed and fell back onto the cot. How long was she to be kept here? she mused and raked a slender hand through her long hair. She felt she would slowly go insane if freedom was denied her any longer. As it was, she thought she was being driven to the brink of insanity. She had had the most peculiar dream the night before, a wonderfully wanton dream, in which her kidnapper had made passionate love to her, and she had responded to his kisses and his embrace like a whore. But though her cheeks pinkened to recall the dream, which must have occurred in the height of her delirium, a sense of complete satisfaction filled her. Such dreams and thoughts were wrong, a part of her protested, but she couldn’t stop dwelling on how the man’s hard body had felt beneath her fingers, how his kisses had scorched her flesh, and how she wished she would dream such fantasy again.

“I
am
going crazy!” Laurel objected to her own musings and sat up. “If I don’t escape from here soon, I’ll become a stark, raving lunatic.” However, she couldn’t help recalling that her kidnapper had nursed her through her illness. She remembered the awful brew he had forced down her throat and his surprisingly gentle treatment of her. Color washed her cheeks anew when she gazed down at her body that was bare beneath the blanket’s wrapping. The man had had the audacity to undress her, but then again she shouldn’t be surprised where such a man was concerned.

Glancing toward the table, Laurel noticed a basket there with a note lying next to it. Still weaker than a sick puppy, she stood up gingerly and walked the few feet to the table. With trembling hands, she opened the ivory paper.

“Please eat, mademoiselle. I shall be back later.”

There was no signature. Instinctively Laurel realized her kidnapper had written this terse message and left the basket for her. And he
would
be back.

Opening the straw top, she smelled the odor of freshly prepared soup and homemade biscuits that wafted up to her and caused her stomach to growl like a jungle cat. How long had it been since she had eaten? She could barely remember, but out of principle, she wanted to forgo the food. The man must be arrogant to believe she would do whatever he wanted after he had kidnapped her. But her resolve deteriorated under the wonderful aromas, and she found herself salivating. Sitting down on the chair, she took out the silver bowl that contained the soup and began noisily slurping down the broth, heedless of the spoon in the bottom of the basket. She would worry about decorum another time, she decided.

After the soup and a flaky biscuit had been consumed and filled her empty stomach, Laurel felt content. Still clutching the blanket around her, she vowed that when the man returned, she would stop acting like such a ninny and demand her freedom. Had the servant woman not told him that she wasn’t Lavinia? Was that why he still held her captive? In her dream she remembered him calling her by her own name in the heat of passion. But again, that was only a dream.

The creaking of the door alerted her. She thought her kidnapper was coming and flew out of the chair, holding the blanket tightly against her, waiting for him to enter. The door slowly opened a crack, but no one stood there. Laurel blinked, unable to believe her good fortune. He had forgotten to lock the door. She was free.

Unmindful of her state of undress, she flew to the door, ready to depart, but then stopped. She needed clothes. Turning quickly back, she spotted the gypsy costume lying on the edge of the cot. Hurriedly she threw off the blanket and pulled on the skirt before reaching for the blouse, which rested in a tangle on the mattress. When she picked it up, something gold and round fell onto the dusty floor. Holding the blouse in front of her exposed breasts, she stooped down and picked up the object.

A gold button with an engraved A in the center gleamed in the palm of her hand. Where had it come from? she asked herself. “From him” was the answer that resounded in her head like an echo. Suddenly feeling weak, she sat down on the cot and clutched the button tightly. The memory of her “dream” washed over her. She had pulled at the man’s shirt, nearly ripping it from his powerful shoulders. She could still recall the softness of the fabric and the hard, rippling muscles beneath her fingertips. She gasped, and her heart nearly stopped beating. It was no dream.

She unfurled her palm and gazed at the button, a reminder of a passion-laced night. What must the man think of her? she cried silently. And when he returned, he would no doubt expect her to act like a whore again. She swore under her breath at the outrageous situation in which this man had placed her. When he first kidnapped her, she had expected him to rape her. Instead she had freely given him her virginity and loved every moment of wanton abandon in his arms. She couldn’t claim rape. Yet she didn’t want to face the dark, hooded visage of her lover. She couldn’t face him and allow him to think she had freely given herself to him, though this was, indeed, the case. No doubt he would expect her to play the tart again, and she wouldn’t. How could she admit that she had wanted this man to make love to her, and that if he approached her again, she would fall willingly into his arms?

“No, never again,” she breathed and pulled the peasant top over her head. Freedom was only a few feet away, and she would never have to tell anyone what had happened to her, or even to remember the night of desire she had spent in the arms of a stranger. But when she went to toss the button on the cot, she couldn’t. It represented a night of sweet, unbidden passion—something she might never experience again.

Laurel swayed for a brief moment, overcome by tiredness and fear that her lover would return before she chanced the escape. However, she took the button and slipped it into the hem of her skirt and scurried from the cabin.

Once outside, Laurel leaned weakly on the porch railing, shielding her face from the sun as it slipped from behind a cloud to beam its warmth onto the silent bayou. Soon her eyes adjusted to the shimmering light, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. Surveying her surroundings, she looked in the direction of the shoreline from which she thought the man had entered on the rainy night of her kidnapping. A small section of shore jutted out like an arm and which, she felt certain, led though the wooded area to the road beyond. But she had to wade across the bayou to obtain her freedom.

Propelled by the innate desire to be away from the cabin that had been her prison and the place where the stranger had branded her as his woman, she stood in waist-deep water before she realized thick, rich mud enveloped her feet with each tentative step she took. When she reached the opposite side, feeling fortunate that nothing had slithered in her direction, she dropped for a moment to her knees, fatigued and breathing shallowly. But she had to go on, had to escape the memories of the past few days … if ever she could.

Rising to her feet, she smoothed out the wet cloth of her clinging gypsy costume. Then she moved onward into the dark forested area, which she hoped would lead her to help, salvation. But how will I explain this? she asked herself and felt herself blush as she began to walk beneath a canopy of low-hanging trees. She had been kidnapped, nursed back to health by her kidnapper, only to give herself to him—willingly. Would anyone believe such a preposterous tale, and if someone did, would she still be accepted or would she be treated like a harlot? She didn’t wish to dwell on such a possibility now, or even think about the man who had taken her freedom, her love, only to disappear after having apparently suffered a twinge of conscience and having brought her some food. He hadn’t been man enough to wait until she woke up this morning, to admit to her that he had wronged her. But he hadn’t really wronged her. That was the problem. She had given herself body and soul to a virtual stranger.

A pulsating headache started to pound out a torturous rhythm with each step she took. Her bare feet, unused to being unshod, already felt raw, as she meandered down the wooded trail. Luckily the mud cushioned them against the larger pebbles and protruding vines that littered the way. Not only did Laurel have to watch where she stepped but on what she stepped. The thought of disturbing any reptilian life sent shivers coursing through her. It was minutes later that her teeth began to chatter, and she realized no fear of snakes had done that. She was sick again, and she knew it. If only she could get through this tropical maze of croaking frogs, fluttering birds overhead, and moss-laden trees that blocked out the sunlight, she would improvise some story to her rescuer. However, she had no idea how far the road was or even if she was headed in the right direction, for other trails branched off, God only knew where.

Laurel followed a thin, winding path, overrun with weeds, but after what seemed like hours, she was still in the heart of the forest and apparently no closer to the road. She must have taken the wrong trail. Was this how her life would end—on a lonely and forgotten trail in the middle of a forest with only birds to mark her passing? How tired she was, how cold and weak in the knees. She barely had the strength to go on, much less to retrace her steps to try another trail.

A sob rose in her throat. Sinking to the ground, she relished the softness of the dew-covered grass, which felt as soft as the finest feather mattress she had ever slept on. She supposed this was as good a place as any to end her life, a life that had barely begun. And all because she had wanted to sample the wild and untamed existence of Texas, to be like Lavinia. She wondered if Lavinia and Uncle Arthur would miss her. Probably not for long, she decided. But Gincie would miss her. Sweet, dear Gincie. Tears began to trickle down Laurel’s cheek to think how Gincie would suffer when Laurel didn’t return for her. More than anything, she mourned this aspect of her own death. How would Gincie fare without her?

Thunder sounded in the distance, though a spot of sunlight danced across her face. She would miss the sun, and everything that was now denied her. Not so long ago she had told Lavinia she would never marry a man who wanted her only for her money, that she would rather be alone. A strangled laugh bordering on hysteria bubbled up in her throat. Well, she had received her wish. She was going to be alone now forever. Her life would end beneath a canopy of tall moss-hung trees.

The thunder seemed to be growing louder until it nearly deafened her. With all the strength Laurel could muster, she opened her eyes and peered up at the sky beyond the pines and oaks. “Why, the sky is blue,” she muttered stupidly, expecting the rain to start. Her strength had failed her, and now thunder reverberated in her head until she wanted to scream from the pain. Then it stopped to be replaced by the gentle sound of a horse’s whinny.

She heard her name being called in a wrenching, agonized voice and felt herself being lifted and held in a man’s arms. Cushioned against a hard chest, she could feel the rapid beating of a heart against her arm. For a moment she expected to see the dark, hooded countenance of the man who had caused her to be here in the first place, of the man she had shamelessly loved the night before. Instead she saw Tony Duvalier’s handsome and concerned face bending over her, blocking out the sun, the sky, and the trees.