Rapture in His Arms (4 page)

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As twilight descended that evening, Jillian found herself extremely sleepy. She even passed up supper. She hadn’t slept well after viewing the incident with Priscilla and her slave the previous night, and fatigue now overcame any reservations she might have had about appearing rude to Priscilla. Opening the French doors in her room to catch a cooling breeze, Jillian then lay down upon the bed.

She breathed the salty sea air that mingled with the aroma of bougainvillea in the garden outside. The sweet scent and the gentle pounding of the nearby surf lulled her into sleep. Not even the large clock in the hallway, chiming every hour on the hour, wakened her. It wasn’t until eleven chimes resounded in the quiet house that Jillian even stirred in her sleep, but so deep into slumber was she that she didn’t hear the terrace doors opening further, and most certainly she wasn’t aware of the man who stood beside her bed, intently watching her.

Jillian had no idea of the beguilingly beautiful picture she made as moonlight spilled over her, gilding her face like a silver mask, or how incredibly young she appeared with her long, chestnut braid flowing onto the pillow with tousled strands of hair framing her face. If she’d known how the man stood transfixed by her bed, his dark eyes slowly traversing the features of her face to move downward and linger upon her full breasts, primly covered by her white night rail but tempting nonetheless, she’d have been mortified. Her mortification would have known no bounds had she realized that this man’s hot gaze also traveled below her waist to where the sheet and night rail wantonly twisted around her perfectly formed thighs in serpentine fashion, exposing her lower body. She had no idea that her admirer swallowed hard, almost convulsively, seemingly at war with himself, before he gathered the courage to reach out a tentative hand and gently skim her velvety cheek with his callused fingers.

Jillian moaned softly in her sleep, and Donovan caught his breath. His heart beat hard. Never had he felt skin so soft or seen a woman so beautiful. He recalled many of the well-bred women who had frequented the Mortimer estate over the years and been fascinated by Sir Horatio’s white slave. Donovan grinned to himself, for old Horatio would have suffered apoplexy if he’d know the number of times his female guests had invited his slave to their rooms. And Donovan had gone. Hell! Why shouldn’t he have pleasured himself with fancy English tarts who were more than willing to lie with a mere slave? But if Horatio Mortimer had known the number of times Donovan had frequented the beds of Horatio’s lady friends, and then Priscilla’s after Horatio married her, the old man would probably have personally castrated him.

For all the women with whom he’d secretly lain, Donovan had had to work up the courage to come to this woman, this woman who slept the sleep of the innocent. Donovan peered closely at her; she looked incredibly young and inexperienced, but Donovan reminded himself that the woman wasn’t innocent; otherwise, he wouldn’t be in her room, ready to waken her and pleasure her with his hands, his lips, his body. Priscilla had surprised him when she told him that her guest, the very proper married lady from Virginia, wanted to bed him. Since Priscilla had taken up with him, he’d been only with her and no one else. Though many pretty women had seemed interested in him on their visits, Priscilla had jealously kept him for her own use. Now, she wanted him to pleasure this woman from Virginia. Why? Sharing anything was so unlike the greedy Priscilla.

And yet, Donovan hadn’t refused her. As a slave, he couldn’t refuse to do any chore he was ordered to perform—he knew that—though, in fact, many times he didn’t do what old Mortimer or Phipps, the overseer, commanded him to do out of sheer orneriness. He suffered for it later to prove the point that no one could make him do what he didn’t want to do—but the thought of refusing Priscilla’s command to go to Jillian Cameron’s bed never entered his mind. All afternoon, he’d waited for this moment, mentally picturing how the Cameron woman would look without her plain high-necked gown to cover her nakedness. His manhood had swelled to imagine her opening her arms to him and drawing his head to nestle between her soft breasts. Now that the anticipated moment was finally at hand, he suddenly felt stupid and unsure. What if he didn’t please Jillian Cameron?

Donovan shook his head to drive away his uncertainty. Jillian Cameron had sent for him to come to her while her husband was away, a sure sign that the woman wasn’t sexually inexperienced—or fulfilled. Donovan decided that he could please her easily. From the look of Edwin Cameron’s pasty complexion and thinness, the man was ill, and most probably he’d been unable to perform his husbandly duty for some time. Donovan had decided long ago that all Englishwomen were whores at heart, and this woman was no different; otherwise, he wouldn’t be there now. Yet he felt some distress to find that she was like all of the others—a woman without virtue.

Though he guessed she was as promiscuous as Priscilla, Donovan still ached to flame Jillian’s passion, to have her respond to him like a lover and not like an old man’s neglected wife who was starved for physical satisfaction. He wanted to seduce her, to see desire for him light up her aqua eyes. He buried his shame deeply inside of himself for wanting to gain a response from an Englishwoman.

Since the first time he’d seen Jillian with her elderly husband some weeks ago, he’d been very aware of her. Even from a distance he saw she was beautiful, and when he’d seen her close up, he saw something else in her face, something he’d seen too little of in his life; he saw kindness and was afraid. Her kindness made him want to hate her, to believe the worst of her. The English had mercilessly slaughtered his parents, his family and friends. The English had forced him into a life of slavery, an existence he couldn’t escape, though he’d run away countless times in the past. He’d always been captured, to suffer the brunt of the whip for his disobedience. He’d never forget the horrors he’d witnessed as a child at Drogheda or the awful abuses that he suffered each and every day of his life. But Jillian Cameron, an Englishwoman, had stood up for him when he was beaten.

No one had ever defended him before, and Donovan didn’t know how to respond, or even how to react, except with stony silence. Never had he been so humiliated in his life as to be dragged before this woman like he was a wild dog. Pain and torment he understood, but not kindness. All he’d known for the last twenty-seven years of his life had been the whip, the cruelty of Mortimer and his succession of brutal overseers. He was used to standing in quiet defiance before his tormenters, knowing that he tormented them by his very silence. But this woman had cried out against the beating of a slave and risked not only Mortimer’s displeasure but also her husband’s. Why? Was the woman crazy? No other Englishwoman had ever demanded an end to brutality, not even Priscilla. And it was the Cameron woman’s kindness that unnerved him and made him uncertain now of how to approach her.

Should he wake her by shaking her or should he kiss her to wakefulness? Did she wish him to be gentle or rough with her? Should he take the lead in lovemaking or allow her to guide him? Donovan groaned. What difference did it make to him what she wanted? Clearly, the woman wanted him for a moment’s pleasure. He must remember that Jillian Cameron was nothing to him, nothing at all. She was no different from other Englishwomen he’d known. Despite her fancy ways, she was still a whore, and he’d not forget it.

Lowering himself to the mattress, Donovan curled beside the sleeping beauty. He steeled himself not to be swayed by her loveliness, but like a moth drawn to a flickering, bright flame, Donovan slowly and seductively kissed her soft, pink lips. He couldn’t help himself. They tasted sweet and warm like sugar syrup. His intention had been to kiss her just a few times, only to waken her, but once he’d tasted her lips, Donovan found he didn’t want to stop kissing her. This was one Englishwoman he’d enjoy loving very much, he decided, if the rest of her body tasted as wonderful as her mouth.

He moaned softly, his manhood swelled anew when she stirred a bit and lifted her hand from the mattress to graze his bare shoulder in what he took for a submissive gesture. Aye, he thought to himself in a passion-shrouded haze, I want this woman, I have to have her, no matter that she’s a whore at heart.

Something wonderful and nice—and very strange —invaded Jillian’s dream. She’d been dreaming that she was seated by the river; once again, she was a young girl of fourteen, with a large and mangy yellow mutt she’d named Foxglove. In the dream she’d thrown a stick to the dog and he came bounding back with it in his mouth to proudly present it to her. She laughed and stroked his head, and the dog licked her chin. But then Foxglove disappeared, and a man’s shadowy figure took the place beside her. He kissed her, taking the breath from her until she clung to his broad shoulders to keep from falling, to keep him close to her. Something odd was happening to her, something strangely wonderful. Jillian didn’t resist his kisses but reveled in them, wishing them never to end. The dream seemed so real; she even felt his arms wrapping around her and pulling her against his chest, which she realized was bare and musky-scented. She felt the wild beating of his heart against her breast, even dreamed that his fingers had found one of her nipples and expertly kneaded it until she couldn’t do anything but moan in unabashed pleasure. Indeed, strange and unusual sensations coursed through her woman’s body—a body untouched by any man.

Was this man Edwin? she asked herself, and tried to see him, but her eyes wouldn’t open. No, this wasn’t Edwin, she decided, but if not Edwin, then who was her phantom lover? “Who—are—you?” she asked the man in her dreams, not daring to open her eyes in fear that he’d disappear, but she heard her voice, breathy and unreal to her own ears, ask the question.

“’Tis Donovan,” came the husky and passion-drenched reply. “What would you have me do to please you, lady? Would you like—” And then the deep male voice whispered something to her which was so outrageous and so sinful that Jillian’s eyes opened in wide and acute shock. This was no dream. There was a man in her bed! And not just any man, but Donovan, the white slave.

The weight of his body woke her entirely. Her gaze found his reddish-gold head which was moving to her breasts. His tongue flicked through the gauzy material of her gown to find her nipple, and he suckled the bud, which was as hard as a pearl. He groaned as he did this, and it was the lusty sound that made Jillian start and bolt upright in absolute and complete horror.

“Get—off! Get—away!” Jillian pushed him off of her, so terrified that her voice sounded like a shriek. Donovan instantly left the bed and stood up while Jillian grabbed for the sheet and pulled it to her neck. She, too, got up from the bed but on the other side, and she backed up to the wall, resembling a spitting kitten cornered by a ferocious hound. “What—what do you want? What are you doing here?” Donovan made a movement toward her, but she grabbed a heavy, gold candlestick and waved it at him. “Take one more step and I’ll kill you!”

“What is wrong with ye, lady? What have I done?” he asked in apparent confusion. “’Tis a game ye’re playin’ with me then?” He grinned. “Aye, I’ve played this game a’fore, I think. All ye fine ladies want to play games.”

“I’m not playing a game! I’m going to shout to wake the entire house if you don’t get out of my room. What would I want with the likes of you? I’m going to tell my husband about this! I swear I will. He’ll know how to deal with you!” Jillian held the candlestick aloft with both hands, allowing the sheet to fall to her feet when he moved a bit closer to her, but then he stopped. She noticed something flicker across his face, something like abject pain, but then his features hardened.

“Ye shouldn’t have sent for me to share yer bed, lady.”

Jillian heard the condemnation in his voice, and she winced. She hadn’t sent for him to come to her, and she didn’t know why he thought she had, yet she felt guilty because she’d responded to his kisses while she was asleep. “I never sent for you,” she assured him in icy contempt. “I’m a married woman. ’Tis Priscilla who no doubt seeks your companionship, for I would never deign to take a man other than my husband to my bed. Leave me in peace. Otherwise, I shall be forced to bring up this—travesty—to my husband.”

Something in her stance, in the way her eyes were wide with shock and scorn, led Donovan to realize that Jillian Cameron was telling the truth. The woman hadn’t sent for him. He backed away, seeing how much she feared him. “’Tis sorry I am for frightenin’ ye. But I won’t be beggin’ ye not to tell yer husband. I beg nothing’ from no man—or woman.”

Goodness, but he was a defiant, arrogant man for a slave! “Just get out of my room.” Jillian stressed each word, but her voice trembled.

Donovan nodded and turned toward the French doors, saying no more. Without looking back at her, he left as quietly as he’d entered and headed out into the velvet black night. Jillian quickly ran across the room to close and lock the French doors behind him. Her heart thumped so hard and wildly that she didn’t hear the knock on her bedroom door at first.

“Jillian, dear, are you all right? I thought I heard voices,” came Priscilla’s deceptively sweet voice through the door.

Jillian sighed and gritted her teeth as she opened the door to Priscilla. “I’m fine,” Jillian told her and stilled the trembling of her hands. “I had a dream, that’s all.”

“I do hope it was an pleasant dream,” intoned Priscilla. She glanced into the room almost as if she searched for something—or someone.

“I should like to go back to bed, Priscilla.” Jillian realized that Priscilla might have had a hand in sending Donovan to her, but she wasn’t about to tell the woman anything that had happened between them. Let Donovan tell her.

“Certainly, my dear. Sleep well.” Priscilla bit down on her lower lip, and Jillian closed the door in her face.

Jillian sat on the bed and folded her arms across her chest in an effort to cease her trembling. Now that Donovan was gone, tears stung her eyes. She wasn’t certain why the incident should provoke the urge to cry. She was safe. Somehow she knew that the man wouldn’t have hurt her, that he’d wanted to please her with his kisses, his touch. If the man had wanted to rape her, to hurt her, he very well could have just come into the room and done the deed. But she sensed he wanted her to desire his kiss. And she had. Dear God, she had.