Patricia Potter (29 page)

Meredith felt every nuance of that hunger. She knew it wasn’t all physical desire. There was also a fierce need to enter that mysterious world he inhabited, to share the thoughts and feelings he protected so well, to uncover his cryptic past. For only then did she believe she would really know him. And she wanted to know him. She wanted to cross the chasm that separated them in so many ways, not just in this one thing. Not just in the fire they fanned in each other, not just in this fury to touch, to stir, to arouse, to sing the same sensuous song. Not just…

Her hands slid into his shirt again, and she felt an almost imperceptible withdrawal, a warning that exploration would not be tolerated even as he probed every part of her body, slowly and carefully, as if memorizing it for some future time. Her eyes went up to his, and there was regret and even a kind of sorrow there, a certain despair that made her heart constrict painfully. She wanted to whisper reassurances to him, to soothe the raw agony that flickered briefly in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. But she didn’t imagine the impact that impression made on her heart, swelling it until she thought it might burst.

Then his mouth was nuzzling her ear, and she knew little but the wild beating of her heart, and the raging current of her blood. Having been silently warned about not touching his back, her hands went instead to his neck, burying themselves in now tousled black hair that curved around her fingers like down. She felt his fevered breathing against her neck and wondered at her own quickened breath.

“Quinlan,” she whispered, saying his name to him for the first time since they had met as adults. Her voice quivered slightly, and his mouth smiled against her neck.

“Quinn,” he corrected softly.

“Quinn,” she amended obediently. And there was a smile in her voice because it sounded so right for him. It had a mystical, musical quality to it, yet also a fine strength.

He moved away from her, and she watched as he peeled off his boots, then his trousers. She wished he would also discard his shirt. She wanted to see the whole of him. Instead, he went back to her side and, as the skin of his leg touched her skin, she no longer cared. Nearly bursting with bittersweet agony, she brought him against her…until her breasts touched his hard chest, and his throbbing manhood stroked the most private part of her. He stayed there a moment, letting her feel him, allowing the blazes in the very core of her body to rage out of control. And then he moved back slightly, his hand sliding between her legs, massaging and caressing, each subtle loving movement bringing forth the most miraculous sensations. He shifted his weight and looked into her face, his eyes glittering with blue fire.

“Are you sure?” he rasped out, his body suspended above hers. “Are you sure, Meredith?”

Meredith wasn’t sure at all, but her body was—and her soul. She nodded, unable to speak, for she was afraid she would say things she shouldn’t. Things like love. Love had never been mentioned between them, nor had affection. Her eyes closed with a fierce hurt. She wanted words of love, or promise, or devotion, and she understood in some way that this man would never give them.

But she couldn’t stop now. At this moment she needed him more than she had ever needed anything in her life. She was on fire, and only he could extinguish the flames. She felt his warmth as he slowly entered her, his mouth lowering to shower kisses on her face. There was a quick sharp pain, and she couldn’t stop a small cry of surprise. She felt him hesitate, but her hands urged him on although her mouth could not because it was covered by his. He moved unhurriedly within her, and she could feel the taut control of his body, see the throb of a muscle on his cheek.

But with her first cry of rapture, her first compulsive motions in reaction to the growing pleasure inside her, he moved faster, rhythmically, each time thrusting deeper and feeling her own warm moisture embrace him and ask for more. Suddenly Quinn felt a glorious conflagration, a soaring splendor that eclipsed all previous sensation, all previous knowledge. Vibrant fury and honeyed sweetness mixed together and spun wildly until her cry of profound pleasure and his own groan of exquisite satisfaction registered and whirled him back to a troubled present.

Still indelibly, incredibly joined, they stared at each other, their bodies quivering with the afterglow of making love, with the enormity of what had just happened between them.

Stricken by what he had done, by his complete lack of control, Quinn’s hand went to her mouth, which trembled slightly as her eyes questioned him. With every ounce of discipline he had ever built, had ever learned, he reconstructed his defenses and retreated behind them. His mouth quirked up in that curious way of his. “I wonder who is whose prisoner,” he said dryly, his blue eyes glittering like shards of crystal.

The words could have meant anything. It was the eyes that destroyed her, that struck deep inside her, more painful than any sword. She had wanted reassurance, words of love, of tenderness. Warmth. Even a drop of warmth.

Meredith swallowed. I will not cry, she told herself although she wanted to do just that. She turned her face away, not wanting him to see the wound he had just inflicted.

Quinn flinched from the obvious pain in her face, in the way she turned from him, breaking away from him, from the union of their bodies. He swallowed words he wanted to say, afraid they would betray his own depth of feeling. He was afraid of it. He was afraid for himself, but mostly for her. He had been a Jonah to everyone who had ever cared for him. Yet he couldn’t resist touching her, caressing her arm.

“Merry, what are we doin’ to each other?” It was more a groan than a question, and he expected no answer. He knew his drawl had deepened, a sure sign of his internal conflict. He was glad no one recognized it but him. His hand went to an unruly gold curl settling on Meredith’s back.

Quinn held it for a moment, treasuring it, but then he dropped it quite suddenly. He unwound himself from the bed, going to his armoire, and extracting one of his silk shirts. He handed it to her knowing he would not get anywhere with her sitting naked on his bed. He leaned down and picked up his trousers, slipping into them quickly before she could realize how she was affecting him again.

Meredith stared at the shirt, then her dress. She knew she could not put on the latter with her hands still trembling. She took the shirt and slowly slipped her arms into the sleeves. Despite its obviously newly laundered condition, it still smelled of him. Like the sheet.

She buttoned the shirt carefully, trying to regain her poise, her disdain for him. She should hate him more than ever, but she couldn’t. And she hated herself for it, despised herself. He obviously didn’t care about her. His eyes had shown that only too clearly. He cared only about using her, only about extracting information from her, and he had used the cruelest possible way to do it. She decided to tell him no more, although minutes earlier she had nearly made the opposite decision.

She watched as he stood there, his eyes as remote as ever, the curve of his mouth telling her nothing. It was as if what had happened had happened only to her. It did not seem to affect him in any way. She felt barren inside. Barren and dead. She wanted to do something, to say something to get a reaction. “You’re a bastard,” she attacked, her eyes going to a splotch of blood on the sheet.

“Aye,” he admitted dryly, his eyes going to the same spot, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “And you, pretty Merry, are an impostor, a very lovely impostor. You might be many things, but lightheaded and simple you most definitely are not.”

“Don’t call me Merry.” The words, derived from hurt so deep she didn’t know how it could be borne, were spit out.

Quinn looked at her in surprise.

“No one calls me that but Lissa and…”

“And who?” Quinn asked the question quietly.

She stopped. Her face closed. She had been ready to say the Parson.

“Who, Meredith?” Christ, he wanted to know. He wanted to know who else she had allowed into her life. The sudden jealousy was almost more than he could stand.

“Who?” he repeated softly.

Meredith looked up. His eyes were not cold now, but blazing, compelling an answer.

His hand went around her arm, and she knew he wouldn’t release her until she replied. And she had to get away before he saw the tears gathering in the back of her eyes.

“A…a minister…a parson I know.”

Quinn closed his eyes as the words penetrated. He knew now. He should have known sooner. Maybe he had, but he just hadn’t been ready to accept it. He released her arm and went to the painting, studying it closer. Now he knew what had nagged him. It had been partly the signature, similar to the one on the canvas in Brett’s office, but it had also been that particular bend in the river. He had seen it at Briarwood, but he had seen so many bends in the river that his mind had not isolated it until she mentioned the Parson…and he remembered the sketch of the fox.

Damn the man and his games to hell. He should have said something, damn him.

Meredith Seaton was M. Sabre. Meredith Seaton had been at Elias’s warehouse because she was with the Underground Railroad. She knew the Parson because she was an agent. And her half sister Lissa was the reason. Meredith hadn’t faked her anguish earlier when she had talked of a half sister.

He felt the budding of elation inside. No wonder they had been so attracted to each other from the first moment they’d met. They had more than one bond between them. Admiration for her swelled in him. She had played the fool’s role well, and it must have been a devilishly lonely game. He, at least, had Cam.

But the elation was soon overcome by self-loathing. In kidnapping her, he had done irreparable harm to her and to her masquerade. And yet she had given herself to him with a sweetness and passion he had never believed existed. And he had returned that gift with cruelty.

Quinn turned back to her, to where she was sitting huddled against the cabin wall in a shirt that dwarfed her. She looked like a desolate lost child, yet he knew she was neither. The Underground Railroad used neither fools nor children in the network. Meredith Seaton must be uncommonly bright and courageous.

Bloody hell, but he had misused her. The knowledge kept his eyes colder than he intended, his mouth grim. Terrible, pounding guilt racked him. And he hid that guilt behind the facade he had perfected.

When he took several steps toward her, she moved even closer to the wall. He noticed there were sparks of anger in her eyes as well as accusation. Furious defiance became evident in every stiffening bone of her body. He smiled slightly, his face taking on the crooked wry expression that was indecipherable. She was extraordinary. Really extraordinary.

He sat down and took her hand, holding it tight enough that she could not pull away from him although she tried. “That painting,” he said, nodding to the rainbow on the wall, “was bought at a shop in Cincinnati.” He watched as her eyes widened with apprehension. “It was,” he continued in the same even tone, “a station of a certain railroad.” He felt her fingers tense in his.

“I’ve been trying to locate that painter,” he continued as if there had been no reaction, “because his work is quite…exceptional.” Meredith’s face turned white, and if he had any doubts, they were gone now. “I wanted to find him to get more of his work and to tell him how very good he is. I’m telling you that now, Meredith.”

Meredith stared at him. There was an intensity in his face she could not fathom.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw a sketch of a fox in a certain Parson’s cabin. He is a friend,” Quinn said, his voice searching now, wanting to hear her confirm everything.

Meredith stared at him, at eyes no longer shuttered but sharing knowledge…and a regret that bit straight through her.

“As is Elias Sprague,” he continued softly. Her back was still stiff, her eyes still wary, and her hand still seeking release. “Damn it, Meredith,” he said, feeling more than a little pain that she didn’t trust him. His hand tightened on her wrist, demanding agreement.

If he had taken her in his arms, if he had said the words she longed to hear, she would have flung herself toward him with joy. But he did none of those things, and she knew with a certainty that he had made love to her only to discover what he wanted to know, not because of any feelings for her. It was, she realized, why he was remorseful now. Guilt, not love, had put the softness in his voice.

She suddenly hated him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said coolly. “I do paint, but I don’t know any…who did you say it was? M. what?” Before he could answer, she continued on. “And I want to return to New Orleans. You can let me off at Natchez. I’ll say I’ve been kidnapped and I escaped. I wouldn’t want to see your brother disgraced.”

“Merry—”

“Meredith, damn you,” she said with no little fury. “You have what you wanted.” She would let him guess whether it was his assumption about her identity or her body she meant. “And you will let me go or I will make a scene neither you nor anyone else will forget.” The terrible stabbing anguish, the deep aching rejection that she had experienced once before, boiled into an anger so deep she was shaking. She had felt empty before, but never like this. Never like a shell with its core ripped out and exposed.

And that was what he had done. He had exposed her need, her weakness, her vulnerability. No one had been able to do that before. No one.