Rapture in His Arms (3 page)

After more than an hour of eye-straining needlework, Jillian’s eyes started to burn. She placed her needlework on the table beside the bed, then blew out the tallow candle and tried to sleep. Croaking frogs and crashing surf broke the night’s stillness. But there was another sound, too, the sound of a person moaning in what Jillian perceived to be pain. She sat up and listened.

“Oooo—oh—oh!”

Was someone ill or hurt? Jillian got out of bed and padded to the French doors which led from her bedroom onto the back terrace. Her sheer white night rail clung to her legs as she waited, barely breathing, until she heard the moans again and realized the sounds emanated from Lady Priscilla’s room next door. Might Priscilla be ill and in need of help? Jillian had never heard such strange, breathy sounds, and wondered if she should get Priscilla’s maid. As the moans increased and grew huskier in nature, Jillian grew alarmed, frightened that Priscilla might be dangerously ill. There wasn’t time to seek out Priscilla’s maid. She’d have to tend to the woman herself. As mistress of a large plantation, she’d taken care of a number of maladies over the years and felt certain she could help the woman until a physician was fetched.

Hurrying across the terrace, Jillian was relieved to find the terrace doors to Priscilla’s room were ajar. The moans grew more intense as she pushed open the door and entered without knocking. “Priscilla, are you ill?” she asked softly, but then she halted in her steps. Her gaze traveled toward the bed, illuminated by at least ten candles in brass holders which were artfully arranged on the floor by the bed. She’d expected to find Priscilla in bed but the scene before her elicited a raspy gasp and the sudden sensation that she was strangling.

The woman wasn’t alone.

Stretched out beside Priscilla’s writhing body like a golden tiger was the Irish slave named Donovan. Both of them were naked and sweating. His hand caressed one of the woman’s ample breasts, and his very touch appeared to have driven Priscilla into a frenzy. Strangely, he was the one who glanced up at Jillian’s voice. His dark gaze swept disturbingly over her, starting at her face and raking down to her bare feet and up again to take in each curve of her body, ill-concealed by the white night rail.

Stains of bright red bathed Jillian’s cheeks. Never had she seen such a sight as this before in her life and she was horrified, so taken aback that she couldn’t move. Moreover, she truly didn’t comprehend why Priscilla seemed to derive great pleasure from this man’s hand upon her breast. Priscilla continued moaning and writhing upon the bed, though the man’s hand had stilled. Her eyes were closed, and apparently she didn’t notice Jillian’s presence until Donovan muttered lowly, cautiously to Priscilla, “We’re not alone, milady.”

His words must have penetrated Priscilla’s passion-fogged brain for Priscilla opened her eyes and followed his gaze to where Jillian waited in the doorway. Her mouth fell open in surprise. “My Lord! What are you doing in here?” the woman shrieked and pulled the sheet over her breasts. “You should have knocked first!”

Jillian’s throat grew dry; she could barely speak. “I—I—thought you might be ill. I heard strange—sounds—”

“Get out, just get out!” Priscilla ordered, her face so red that Jillian thought the woman might be suffering a fit of some sort. Suddenly Jillian’s shock dissipated and her legs moved of their own volition. She ran across the terrace to the safety of her own room and closed the terrace doors to block out Priscilla’s angry words. However, the woman’s upraised voice carried through the wall. Worse, Jillian heard the slave’s husky laugh.

God, the man was laughing at her! A slave, a fornicator, had the audacity to be amused at her reaction to a sinful situation. She sat on the bed and placed her hands on her heated cheeks. She was so embarrassed; she wished to curl up into a tiny ball and disappear into the thousands of grains of sand on the beach. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, she knew she hadn’t, and she shouldn’t feel this way. All she’d wanted to do was offer her help to a woman whom she’d believed might be ill.

In her mind, Jillian kept hearing Priscilla’s moans. Why did the woman make such strange sounds during lovemaking? Though Jillian was married, she knew very little about what happened between a man and a woman in bed. She and Edwin shared a bed while in Bermuda with only a goodnight kiss between them, but evidently there was much more to love-making than the act which begot children. Priscilla’s moans hadn’t been from pain but from pleasure. Could a man’s touch cause such overpowering pleasure that a woman would break her marriage vows to bed with a man other than her husband? Jillian was mystified.

The image of the slave called Donovan replayed over and over in her mind. She couldn’t forget how large and handsome he’d looked—like a bronzed god instead of a slave—as he lay stretched out on his side beside Priscilla, his naked thigh well-muscled and glistening with sweat. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d seen. Jillian groaned into her pillow, detesting herself for such wicked, sinful thoughts and more than bewildered by the strange heat that slithered through her veins.

In the morning, when Edwin returned, she’d definitely broach the subject of returning to Virginia. She couldn’t wait to leave this sinful house where the mistress freely cavorted with a slave—no matter how handsome the man. What Priscilla had done was wrong, a great sin against Sir Horatio. Never would she, herself, be unfaithful to Edwin. There wasn’t a man living who could tempt her to break her marriage vows.

Believing herself to be a virtuous wife and immune to other men, Jillian fell asleep with a prim smile upon her face. Yet her dreams recaptured the image of what she’d witnessed and she saw—not Priscilla writhing beneath Donovan’s skilled hands, but—herself.

Noon had nearly come and gone and Edwin hadn’t returned from town. Jillian paced the porch in front of the house, her eyes ever alert for Sir Horatio’s carriage, but all she saw was the deserted, shell-strewn drive. Only when a servant informed her that Lady Priscilla had requested her company for luncheon did Jillian leave the porch and enter the cool dining room.

Priscilla was already seated at the mahogany dining table when Jillian took the chair across from her hostess. A servant placed a tray of oranges and bananas before them, followed by a plate of fresh vegetables, surrounding a conch salad. Jillian dutifully ate the offerings, but she could barely swallow. Not only was she embarrassed to be in Priscilla’s presence again, but she couldn’t stop remembering the naked slave who’d lain with the woman. There was something so disturbing about the memory of his hands on Priscilla’s breast and Priscilla’s ecstasy because of his skillful touch … Jillian hadn’t understood what Priscilla experienced, but evidently the woman hadn’t suffered any ill-effects because of her adulterous behavior. She positively glowed, looking far prettier and more relaxed than Jillian had ever seen her. They ate in silence until Priscilla cleared her throat. “I trust you shan’t mention last night to anyone, Jillian. Please, I beg of you, don’t tell your husband. I fear he’d be honor-bound to tell Horatio about my—impropriety—with Donovan.”

Jillian primly wiped her lips with the napkin before she deigned to look at Priscilla. Purposely, she filled that look with frosty disdain. How dare this woman make light of such a serious situation! Impropriety, indeed! “If you’re so worried about your husband learning the truth, then why dally with another man in the first place?” Jillian pointedly asked, and not without condemnation in her tone.

Priscilla winced, her expression serious. “One only has to see Donovan to learn the answer to such a question, my dear Jillian. Evidently, you are blind, or so filled with self-righteous prattle that you can’t comprehend my situation at all.”

“Pray tell me, what is your situation? What could drive you or any woman to be unfaithful to her husband? Sir Horatio seems to love you and has provided you with a lovely home and clothes. I don’t understand how you can behave in such a scandalous fashion—with a—slave.”

“Would you approve of my infidelity if the man were more worthy, if he were a nobleman, perhaps?”

“Nay! But you do not need my approval, milady.”

“I definitely do not,” Priscilla replied, with what Jillian could only take as condescension. “But I shall tell you that ’tis evident to me that, filled as you are with ideals of fidelity and morality, you can never have tasted true ecstasy in a man’s arms. I truly doubt you even know about what I am speaking.”

“I admit I do not for I have never sinned in such a fashion. A wife must be faithful to her husband.”

“Why?”

Jillian was flabbergasted at such a question and couldn’t believe that Priscilla would even ask it. “Because—a woman owes her love to her husband, her provider.”

“My dear, you are naive besides being a prig.” Priscilla laughed and shook her head at Jillian. “I fail to see why I should be faithful to my husband because he provides for me. What is the point of fidelity if my husband is a poor lover and doesn’t satisfy me? I assure you that Horatio isn’t a cuckolded fool. Nay, I believe he knows of my dalliances, but as long as he doesn’t catch me and I am discreet, then he pretends I am his good and true wife. His pride is spared. No one is harmed.”

“But you have committed an offense against God,” Jillian strongly objected. “And one day you shall be punished.”

For a number of seconds Priscilla was quiet. Then in all seriousness, she said, “Gladly will I suffer the heat of hell for a few moments of stolen pleasure with a man who makes me feel like a woman.”

Jillian couldn’t hide her shock and rose to leave the table. “Lady Priscilla, you are an immoral woman.”

“I admit that I am, but what are you?”

“I don’t understand.”

Priscilla wound one of her long curls around a manicured finger and coolly assessed Jillian. “I believe you have never been pleasured by a man, that you have never cried out in ecstasy when he makes love to you—if a man has ever made love to you—which I truly am beginning to doubt. I think you are so self-righteous only because you know nothing of the pleasures involved in lovemaking. If you did, you’d be less apt to condemn me for being unfaithful to a husband who cares only for his own pleasures and leaves me wanting in the bedroom.”

“I choose not to hear any more talk of such a highly personal nature, Lady Priscilla. The whole subject is offensive to me.” Jillian moved away from the table, but Priscilla followed her and grabbed Jillian by the arm, stalling her. Priscilla’s large, blue eyes gleamed viciously.

“You truly are a prim little moralist!”

“Say whatever you wish about me, but I am not an adulteress.”

Priscilla tugged hard on Jillian’s arm. “I should take your word that you won’t tell anyone about last night—especially not my husband. If he knew, he’d do something horrible to me—or to Donovan. I could lose everything if Horatio knew for certain about all the times I’ve lain with Donovan. Have I your word? Please, I must have your promise that you’ll tell no one.”

Jillian had never intended to tell anybody, especially not Edwin, who’d only be distressed by the entire sordid situation. All Jillian wanted was to return to Cameron’s Hundred and not think about any of this ever again. Jillian shrugged loose of Priscilla’s hand. “I promise not to say a word about any of this. ’Tis none of my concern.”

Though Priscilla eyed Jillian with suspicion, the woman had no alternative but to accept Jillian’s word. “I trust you shall not cross me, Jillian. I don’t want to lose Donovan as my lover.”

“And all I want is for Edwin to return so we can make preparations to leave for home,” Jillian honestly told her.

Priscilla shrugged and appeared to be satisfied with Jillian’s response. “I received a message earlier from our husbands. They won’t return until tomorrow. I told you that Horatio loses all sense of time at the gaming tables.”

Stifling a groan, Jillian swung away and went outside into the afternoon heat to think and be gratefully away from Priscilla’s presence. However, Priscilla’s suspicious gaze followed after Jillian. She didn’t entirely trust Jillian to live up to her promise not to say anything. The woman was filled with a strict sense of virtue, something which Priscilla didn’t like or understand. But if Jillian had a secret of her own to guard, then chances were quite good that Jillian wouldn’t feel the inclination to tell Edwin Cameron, or Horatio, about Priscilla’s indiscretion.

Priscilla chewed for a moment on one of her well-manicured fingernails until an idea blossomed in her head. There was but one way to insure that Jillian Cameron lived up to her word, and Donovan was the key to obtaining Jillian’s silence. As much as Priscilla didn’t like using Donovan in such a way, she couldn’t think of another plan. Over the years, she’d shared men with other women. She’d even been one of King Charles’s many mistresses for a short time, before she’d married Horatio. No one knew better than she, how exciting stolen moments could be with a handsome and virile man, no matter his status in life—and Donovan was certainly handsome and an expert lover. She didn’t worry that Donovan would refuse to do her bidding. After all, he was a slave and she provided him with the only moments of pleasure he experienced in his hard life. And what woman in her right mind would turn away such a handsome and innovative lover? For all of Jillian Cameron’s righteous prattle, Priscilla realized she was a woman who needed a man, and maybe the little prig would thank her in the end.