One Wore Blue (44 page)

Then he was silent, and the searing-hot, wet slide of the tip of his tongue traveled ever more downward. Downward, until she thought she would scream. Her entire body awakened, and both cold and steaming, it was near agony in the tempest, sweet and hungry, that seized her—the wanting, the knowing, the needing.

That searing hot dampness was suddenly within her, deep within her, pervading her. An invasion so sweet, it brought a shattering sensation to burst throughout her. A cry welled within her, touched her lips, but never escaped her.

For he was suddenly atop her, his arms around her, and his lips were hot and hungry and molded over hers, smothering any sounds of ecstasy that might have escaped her. The bare bronze sleekness of his body was pressed taut to hers, seeming to meld with it.

His eyes upon her, he held himself above her and watched her eyes as he began his body’s own riveting invasion of hers, coming deeper, deeper, deeper.

A soft whisper of desperation tore from her lips, and she buried her face against his throat, pulling tighter and tighter against him, arching, twisting, feeling him with all her length, inside and out. He was slow, torturously slow, pressing her back and watching her eyes again as he moved against her, seeming to burn inside her until he touched her womb, her heart, her very soul.

Then slowness was wickedly abandoned. Even in the darkness his eyes were startlingly blue upon her, and his smile was as wicked as the storm that he promised. He was suddenly a tempest, a whirlwind. He moved like lightning and swept her into his rhythm. Night breezes moved about, but the heat seemed consuming. Slick and warm, she clung to him, tasting him, kissing his lips, his shoulders, his lips again. She reached for things that, even now, she barely understood. Things intangible, elusive, as raw as the bare earth, as mystical as the clouds in a night sky. Things that made her hunger, and wonder. For it was splendor to be held so, and it was an even greater splendor for which she reached.

And then he was nearly still, rigid and taut. He moved slowly, slowly, then with startling speed, touched all of her inside again. He withdrew and filled her once again, hard.

Again she almost cried out. But his lips were there, and he kissed her, his tongue ravishing her mouth to steal sound away while the pulsing shaft of his body moved as hard and hot as molten steel deep, deep into her, one long, slow, last time, sinking, staying there.

All that she had reached for came cascading down upon her. Great waves of sensation rushed over her, swirled around her, settled into her. Warmth, dampness, and the sweet liquid heat of his fulfillment entered into her and brought with it a new sensation of ecstasy, a shuddering that seized hold of her.

The trembling remained for long, long moments.

She felt his swift movement as he withdrew from her at last, felt the hot slick wetness of their passion trail across her belly and thighs as he fell to her side, enveloping her in his arms.

She felt the breeze in the room, so cold against her naked flesh. She shivered violently, and he pulled her closer against him, bringing the covers over them both.

Little objects in the room suddenly seemed to stand out in the shadows and moonlight. Andrew Miller’s desk, his bed frame, the windows that looked out onto his lawn. Andrew Miller’s. One day they would have been Anthony’s.

And hers.

But she was lying here tonight with Jesse. “Oh, God,” she breathed suddenly.

“What is it?” Jesse asked.

“I’ve got to go.”

She tried to leap up, but his arms suddenly wound more tightly around her. “Why?”

She was pinned down. His knee lay over her thighs, and his arm braced her. He didn’t intend to let her go.

“Jesse—”

“Why? How can you say that now, after everything that we’ve just shared?” Fury riddled his question. His features were taut, his jaw nearly locked.

“We have to forget it—” she tried to begin.

They were the wrong words. He pounced on her, and his hand moved over her. “Mrs. Miller, I promise you, I will never forget it. I will never forget the feel of your flesh, the taste of it. Nor the taste or texture of the bud of your breast in my mouth, the feel of your tongue against my own, the scent of your soap, the scent of you as a woman. I promise you that I will not forget the way you move against me.” He ran his fingers lightly over the sheen of her shoulder. “I won’t forget anything at all, Mrs. Miller. I won’t forget your eyes, I won’t forget lying between your thighs, I won’t forget tasting—”

“Stop it, Jesse!” she nearly shrieked.

“What? It’s all right to do it, but not to talk about it?” he demanded. “Or does it go deeper than that?”

“Jesse, I’m a widow!” she reminded him desperately.

His hold upon her eased, then tightened again. “Fine, Mrs. Miller. You are a widow. But he couldn’t have given you what I give you. Damn you, Kiernan, you came to me! Don’t be a hypocrite. Quit denying me!”

“I’m not denying you!” He had to let go of her because she was shaking in fury. “How could I ever deny you? You had me when I should have been his! You had me first, on his property, when I should have been his fiancée. And now when I’m his widow—Jesse, this is his house!”

He released her. “My Lord. I’m in worse shape with him dead. I’m battling a ghost!”

“It’s his house, Jesse!”

“So it’s all right if we find a bale of hay in a barn?”

“No, it’s his barn, his family—”

“You were never in love with him!” he suddenly thundered.

“Sh!” She pressed her fingers frantically against his lips. He was rigid in his fury. “Please, Jesse?”

He was still, but his jaw remained twisted, his limbs hard, the tension of his body radiating through her like the heat of the sun.

“Jesse, I have to go!” She tried to draw the remnants of her nightgown around her, but his hand was upon her arm again, drawing her back.

“Look at me,” he told her.

She met the searing blue of his stare.

“Admit to me that you were never in love with Anthony.”

“Jesse—”

“Admit it!”

“You’re hurting me!”

“I’m going to hurt you worse!”

“Damn you!” Tears stung her eyes. “All right, all right. You know that I was never in love with him. Why do you have to hear me say it?”

“Why do you have to pretend that there was something between you?” he pressed on furiously. “Did you lie here with him in this bed? Is that what brought on your sudden fit of guilt?”

“It’s none of your business, Jesse.”

“It is! I’m making it my business!”

“Jesse—”

“You didn’t love him. Why the hell did you marry him?”

“Because he wasn’t a Yankee!” she spat out, suddenly as furious as he.

His hold on her slackened. She slipped from it, rolled quickly, and leaped to her feet. Holding her gown together, she stared at him and repeated, “Anthony was never a Yankee!”

She turned to flee, but Jesse didn’t let her go. In a flash he was up, naked and menacing. He had caught her by both of her arms and dragged her back up against him. “No, he was never a Yankee. But he was never the man for you either. And he’s dead now, Kiernan. I didn’t want him dead, but he is. Hundreds of men are dead. Maybe thousands by now—I don’t really know. But don’t pretend that you were in love with him. Not to me!”

“Maybe you can take over his house,” Kiernan charged him in a heated whisper, “but you cannot take over his widow! I won’t let you—I swear I won’t let you!”

She tried to wrench free, but he held her too tight, and his fingers wound harder about her wrists as she struggled. She went still suddenly and met his mocking gaze.

“I already have,” he reminded her.

“Let me go, Captain Cameron!” she snapped.

“No!” He was suddenly very earnest. “You listen to me, Kiernan. I have feelings for Anthony, that’s one of the reasons why I came here. I know about guilt. I thought that at least I could save his house, his family—something for him. And I’ve done that, Kiernan, at least so far. It might be a long, long war. You’ve done what’s right too. Jacob and Patricia need you, and they have you. You’ve loved them and cared for them, and Anthony would have been pleased and proud.”

“He’d have been damned pleased and proud to walk in and find me in bed with you, right?” she inquired with a sizzling taunt, her dazzling eyes piercing his, her head cast back imperiously.

“You
came to
me,”
he reminded her curtly.

Hot color covered her cheeks. “Jesse, let me pass.”

“No! Not until you admit that you never had with him what you’ve had with me. Guilt can’t change that! And guilt can’t keep me away anymore, Kiernan.”

“Jesse—”

“Tell me!”

“You bluebellied son of a bitch!” she exploded. “No, I never had anything with Anthony like I have with you. I
never had anything at all with him! He married me and rode away the same night.”

“What?” he asked incredulously.

“You heard me! Now let me—”

He pulled her close and started to kiss her, a hard, ravishing kiss. She struggled fiercely against him, trying to free her lips, her arms. She didn’t win, but he suddenly drew his head away.

“Tell me that you won’t want me ever again, Kiernan.”

“Will you just let me go!” She tried hard to kick the fine display of naked masculine flesh before her, and she was suddenly very desperate and very determined.

But he dodged all her blows, then spun her around and pulled her hard and flat against his body. “Tell me, Kiernan.” The sound of his voice, the hot whisper of it, bathed her ear and her throat. Even as she hated him, she felt the sweet fire of wanting ignite within her all over again. His fingers just edged over her breasts, and his hand moved downward as he held her taut against him.

“Jesse—” She jerked within his arms, trying to stamp on his feet but managing only to dislodge most of what remained of her torn nightgown.

“Oh, shut up, Kiernan!” he commanded her with throaty laughter. He lifted her by her upper arms, and even as she stared down at him, her eyes wide with alarm, he tossed her into the air and she fell flat upon the bed once again, her nightgown lost completely.

Her eyes narrowed in fury. “Jesse, you—”

He dived down upon her, and his lips were upon hers.

She struggled, but the warmth of his kiss was undeniable. Something languid and sweet swept slowly through her. She touched his hair, feeling the texture of it, only then realizing that her hands were free.

She was free.

But by then, she did not want to go. She did want what he had to give her.

He made love to her a second time that night, and she made love to him in return.

Later, she awoke and felt the probe of his sex at her buttocks
as they lay curled with his arms around her. He made love to her so, and when it was over, she drifted to sleep again, content to feel his arms around her.

She was still at war—at war with Jesse.

But she was too tired to fight at the moment.

She awoke as dawn was coming through the windows, and then she was upset. As his arm curled around her, she pleaded, “Jesse, I have to go now. The children.”

Some emotion passed through his eyes. He understood, she knew. He released her.

“Your gown,” he began, his tone almost apologetic.

“I’ve got it. I’ll wear a sheet,” she said quickly, wrapping herself up in one even as she spoke. She prayed that she wouldn’t meet anyone in the hallway as she hurried toward the door.

“Kiernan!”

She turned back. His hair was tousled, his shoulders very bronze against the white of the sheets, his eyes very blue.

She wondered if she would ever stop loving him.

“Jesse, I have to go.”

“Kiernan, I want you to marry me.”

“I can’t marry you, Jesse!”

“Why the hell not?” he demanded irritably.

“You’re a Yankee! I didn’t marry you before because you’re a Yankee. And I won’t marry you now for the same reason. Don’t you understand?” Why was he always able to bring her so dangerously close to tears? “I’ll never marry you, Jesse! Never!”

She spun around and tore out of his room, almost carelessly, desperate not to meet anyone.

There was no one in the hallway. She could hear sounds in the ward—the “hospital” day was beginning.

Shaking, she sat on her own bed, the sheet pulled about her tightly. She looked out at the dawn breaking through her windows. It would be a beautiful day.

No one, no one but herself or Jesse, would be any the wiser about the night that they had passed together.

But how would she survive the days to come? Wanting
him, loving him, having him so very near, knowing he was just beyond a doorway.

And that she had to stop seeing him.

She sat in torment for a long, long time. But in the end, her dilemma did not matter. It was taken care of for her.

By nightfall, new orders had come for Jesse. He had been commanded to move out.

Kiernan washed and dressed and began to move about the house with its many rooms of injured soldiers. Corporal O’Malley was very pleased that they hadn’t lost anyone during the night. “’Course, that don’t put any of the men in the clear, but living is a darned good sign, if you’ll pardon my language. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Miller?”

“Oh, I’ve come to pardon quite a bit,” Kiernan assured him.

“Even the Reb who was hurt bad is doing fine. But then again, if they send him to a prison camp—oh, I’m sorry, again. I keep forgetting where your sympathies lie, Mrs. Miller. You’re so good to all of us. A couple of the boys say you spy on us, but I know real compassion when I see it, and that’s what you’ve got, ma’am, that’s what you’ve got.”

Real compassion? But I
was
spying, she wanted to cry out.

It didn’t matter. Maybe O’Malley needed his few illusions, and maybe she was one of them.

“Thank you, Corporal. But I am a Confederate,” she told him, “and this morning, I think I will see to the Rebs.”

She smiled at him and hurried down the hallway. T.J. was awake, sitting up in his bed. Patricia was already up and about and perched on a stool by T.J.’s side, writing a letter for him. She gave Kiernan a brilliant smile. “Kiernan, they told me yesterday that T.J. might die, but look at him! He’s doing very well!”