Patricia Rice (26 page)

The first slicing lash of the whip caught him off guard. Ripping through the fine material of his coat and shirt, it stung with a memory more painful than the actual wound. Enraged, Nicholas grabbed the flailing leather before it could strike again, only to be assailed from a second direction.

Nicholas roared in fury as the whip sliced through to his cheekbone. Blood coursed down his face as he swung to meet this second attacker, while he was beset again by the devil behind him.

The lashes were no more than the sting of nettles as, blinded by rage, Nicholas threw himself at the first attacker foolish enough to come within reach. No stranger to pain, Nicholas didn't avoid the whip but plunged toward the one inflicting it with all the anger repressed by time and circumstance.

The man's screams as Nicholas's fist connected with a soft belly only brought more lashes from still a third direction. Nicholas knew the pain now, recognized it for what it was as his clothing shredded and the sharp leather carved into his back, but he had no intention of running. That had been beat out of him a long time ago. The need to kill had not.

Nicholas swung his foot at the man closest, connecting with a shin bone while using his other hand to grab for the weapon. Showered by blows from three sides, he was given no time to think, and his mind retreated to blind rage.

He could hear the screams, feminine screeches that silenced after a few furious words. In his mind Nicholas heard the familiar taunt of his father's voice, and he struck out now as he had never struck out then.

"A marquis doesn't read poetry to coloreds! He swives them or beats them like a man. You'll be a marquis someday, and you're going to learn to do it proper. Will you let some sissified Englishman beat you at fencing ? Your grandfather would see you hung for that!"

The relentless chant of criticism echoed in his head as Nicholas swung from one attacker to the next, kicking as he had learned to do among the dishonorable thieves and pirates he had sailed with, striking out with fists when he came close enough to injure. But the relentless lash of the whips went on, tearing into his flesh as the cane once had.

"Puling milksop! Can't even hold your wine! You'll be a man when I'm done with you, or I'll know the reason why."
Wham! Wham! The cane sliced across his back and buttocks and anywhere else it could reach. Stumbling to his knees with the force of the blows, Nicholas roared with impotent rage and lurched forward, bringing his head up until it connected with a crack beneath one attacker's chin.

The man cried out and dropped back, and Nicholas swung in the direction of the next lash, blood running in his eyes as he aimed his foot with deadly precision and caught the second man between his legs. He heard screams, but they weren't his own. Swinging, he tried to catch the third man, but he was grabbed from behind, both arms caught in vise-like grips as a large man stepped out of the shadows and swung a powerful fist into his abdomen.

Nicholas kicked, connecting with bone, and the arm jerked away. Pain brought sweat to his brow, but fury worked harder. He lunged, catching his captors by surprise, but the shouts and screams were coming closer. With one last blow to his ribs, they let him drop to the grass before blending into the night and disappearing into the shrubbery.

With his last conscious thought, Nicholas wished he could have killed his father.

Chapter 22

Eavin paced her room long after the sounds below had slipped into the silence of sleep.

They had kept her from Nicholas during all but the return trip. Michael and her hostess and the others had in all probability been correct to maintain propriety by keeping her worrying and fretting in the outer rooms while a physician and older, more experienced women tended to his wounds, but that did not make the ache any less.

Whatever the doctor had given Nicholas had kept him unconscious most of the journey home. There had been nothing Eavin could do but hold his head and try to hold him steady while the slaves rowed them upstream. The long gash down his cheek had made her shiver, but the other wounds had been covered by the light silk of a shirt someone had given him—for propriety's sake, of course. The dislocated shoulder had been reset and would be fine Michael had told her, but seeing Nicholas's arm bound tightly as he tossed in restless sleep did not relieve her fears.

She wasn't at all certain what her fears were. Nicholas wasn't likely to die of a whipping. Eavin knew that in her mind, but as she paced her room now, something in her heart warned there were worse things than dying. The memory of Nicholas as he had been after Francine's death was still clear in her mind. That man had not been the same one who had swabbed Jeannette's head when she was ill or laughed and carried her around when she was not. Somewhere inside Nicholas Saint-Just lay a monster waiting to escape, and she couldn't help but think an incident like this would be sufficient to loose it.

The nighttime was the worst for fears like that. The scent of Francine's jasmine perfume permeated the air as Eavin stood indecisively before her wardrobe. That scent jarred her into action. She knew what Francine would want her to do.

Pulling on her wrapper, Eavin stepped into the silent hallway. Only the call of a night bird and the incessant hum of insects could be heard as she walked toward the stairs. She would go by way of the gallery, peek in to be certain Nicholas slept. Francine would have wanted that. No one should be left alone after such an experience, but that wouldn't occur to Michael or the servants. Once satisfied Nicholas was all right, she would be able to sleep.

* * *

The pain of his injuries didn't wake him. Another ache, a dull throb in his midsection had his eyes open and staring at the prison of mosquito netting.

He was aware of the burning in his cheek, the tight bandage holding his arm in place, and the pain that prevented him from lying on his back. Long ago he had learned to ignore those kinds of pains, to mentally step outside of them. But he had never learned to conquer the rage in his heart.

Closing his eyes, Nicholas tried to find sleep. He knew the futility of fighting the past. A child had few choices in this world. He had made the best of what he had been given and escaped as soon as he was able. It had never been enough, but it should have been. He had made something of himself.
 

He was a wealthy, respected landowner. He had married a lady of grace and beauty loved by all society. He had thrown off the shackles of poverty, overcome the shame of constant abuse, and raised himself to his rightful place in the world. As his mother had said, he could return to France now that Bonaparte was gone and claim the title of marquis, and there would be none the wiser.

But he couldn't kill the child of rage inside him. Once he had longed for just a kind word, a soft caress, an expression of sympathy so the rage would dissipate, but there had been no one to offer even that. Logically, Nicholas couldn't blame his mother for being terrified of his father but logic had nothing to do with the pain simmering inside.

Kicking back the netting, Nicholas wrapped a sheet around his hips and went to stand by the French doors overlooking the plantation. He was thirty-two years old and well beyond the need for mothering. Since he had left home at fifteen, he had found countless women who would have mothered him had he wanted it, but their attentions had never held him.
 

Francine had been the only one he had ever wanted for something beyond her body, but in the end that had been denied him, too. Nicholas wasn't at all certain that there was anything else in the relationship between men and women but the desires of the body, yet he kept searching for more. Perhaps children were the secret. He had found a kind of peace in Jeannette's innocent acceptance that he had never found elsewhere in this world.

But loneliness still burned in him. Mixed with rage, it was a volatile fuel, and Nicholas's fists clenched as he summoned Raphael's face to mind. The traitorous bastard was behind tonight's attack; Nicholas had no doubt of that. Señor Reyes might be a furious old man, half mad with grief, but even he wouldn't stoop to something so dishonorable as a blind attack of three against one. This was the work of Raphael. It was time he took an active role in bringing the canaille to his knees.

It felt better to let the anger boil and bubble and come to the top, blocking out the emptiness. He knew how to deal with anger. A dangerous half smile reached his lips as he contemplated what he would do with Raphael. A subject like that could keep him occupied for hours.

Before he'd contemplated the first ghoulish torture, a white wraith appeared on the moonlit gallery, and Nicholas held his breath as it blew along the boards toward him. He had no illusions of Francine returning from the dead to comfort him. Francine hadn't had that kind of courage when alive. But the woman in that delicate linen robe would.

Silently, Nicholas opened the door to the moonlight and let her in. Not hesitating, Eavin stepped through, her gaze flying to his injured face, her gentle fingers caressing the broken skin. With a groan Nicholas caught her in his arms and pulled her against him, and his head dipped to plunder her mouth with his.

Nicholas felt Eavin's resistance with that first kiss, knew he was pushing her over some edge that had stood between them, but he couldn't let her go. His soul craved what she had to offer, and he demanded that she relinquish it. The hesitation was there, in her touch, in her kiss, but Nicholas reached beyond it, reached deep down inside of her where their souls met, and ignited the flames of passion with the fuels of his rage and loneliness.

Eavin surrendered to that need. Her fingers curled in the thick hair at his nape, and her other hand found the road to destruction in the smooth heat of his flesh. She shuddered as Nicholas's kiss deepened, but she was the one who helped him remove her wrapper, which slipped into a puddle of moonlight. With only the slightest of pressures, she willingly fell into his bed. When his free hand pushed aside the bodice of her nightshift to caress her breast, she melted into a malleable clay he could do with as he wished.

He didn't have to force her to anything. Eavin was well aware that Nicholas's injuries prevented him from using his dangerous strength in any way. She was the one voluntarily removing her shift, wrapping herself around him, positioning herself to accommodate his needs with a care to his wounded back and arm. She was the one wholly responsible for opening herself to whatever happened next.

And she didn't care. She cried in ecstasy as Nicholas entered her, and his muffled groan of reply burned a path through her as surely as his physical possession. The days of tension and denial erupted with an urgency they were both pushed to command. The surge of Nicholas's body inside hers brought Eavin to a quivering peak from which there was no return. Nicholas took her mouth with his as he brought them up and over, and her cries were lost as they floated downward in each other's arms.

Sometime later, when her senses returned enough to know the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the rasp of his hair against her thighs, the bruised pain of his hasty entrance, Eavin knew what she had done but continued to deny the wrongness. Nicholas shifted his weight to a more comfortable position, and his fingers wrapped caressingly around her breasts, easing her nipples to sensitive peaks even when they knew they were both satiated.

"
Merci, ma petite
," Nicholas murmured against her ear.

The flow of French after that went on by her, but Eavin recognized that first phrase. Thank you. It was an odd thing to say, but in some way it warmed her heart, and she stroked his face and hair until she felt his breathing level into that of sleep.

She lay awake memorizing the scent and feel of him in her arms. He was a big man, much bigger than Dominic. She knew the strength of the muscles clasped around her, but it wasn't his physical strength that would hold her bound. It was his need for her. She wanted to be needed, craved it, and couldn't resist it when offered. Right now she was swollen with pride that Nicholas Saint-Just had turned to her in his hour of need.

She would recover from that soon enough, she supposed as she untangled herself from his sleeping possession. Once Nicholas was on his feet again, he would return to the arrogant man who didn't need anyone. And she would curse his arrogance and her own foolishness and cry herself to sleep at night.

Leaving Nicholas safely in the healing grip of slumber, Eavin slipped from his bed and back to her own.

Birdsong filled the darkness before dawn. Having given herself up to the sensuality of Nicholas's loving, Eavin had felt no shame in divesting herself of the encumbering lengths of material that were her nightclothes Naked now, she stretched against the linen sheets and reached for a sturdy warmth that was not there.

The old floorboards outside her door creaked, and the door swung open just as she pushed up out of the haze of sleep. Blinking her eyes awake, Eavin felt rather than saw the shadow ease into her dark room. Before she could register more, the shadow stripped off his breeches, and became the rock-solid frame of a man slipping in beside her.

"Shhh," Nicholas whispered against her mouth before she could protest.

And then she was caught in the maelstrom of his kiss, and there was nothing else to do but succumb to the waywardness of the winds. His nakedness pinned her to the mattress, and she reveled in the familiarity of his touch. Sin became an abstract notion when she realized Nicholas had unbound his arm so he could touch her more thoroughly. Joy—wild, unfettered joy—was her only emotion as Nicholas took charge of her body and her passions, and molded them into a vessel that would accept him without restraint.