Samantha James (16 page)

The tension stretched out endlessly. She stared at the hollow of his throat, covered by a wild tangle of dark, masculine hairs. All she could think was how much she longed for him to kiss her again.

The muscles in her throat ached so that it almost hurt to speak. But suddenly it tumbled out in a rush. “I swear it. I’ve never loved William—” Her eyes clung to his. “—and I never will.”

Her fervent declaration seemed to let loose something inside him. He stared down at her. His eyes glittered, almost frighteningly intense. In that timeless void between one heartbeat and the next, something changed. Everything changed.

His arms engulfed her, almost crushing her. His mouth came down on hers, as if to seal the vow. His kiss was hard and plundering, as if to punish her, but it was himself he punished. His mind whirled in a brandy-induced fog. Dominic knew he was a bastard to do this to her. He should have made her leave. He could have, he knew. She was on the verge of tears. If he’d been cruel to her—if he’d taunted her—she’d have run away, as she had once before. But she would hate him, and he couldn’t stand the thought. So instead, he was going to be greedy. He wanted her. He’d wanted her from the very instant he’d seen her crouching alongside the road, terrified that Lucifer was a
demon-dog from hell. Her nearness was a temptation he couldn’t withstand. He would take from her this night…take as much as she was willing to give.

And give she did. He felt an answering quiver in her lips, and he was lost. Her mouth yielded beneath the hungry demand in his, parting softly. Her tongue entwined with his, a tentative touch that made him shudder. With a groan he caught her head in his hands. Her hair tumbled down around his hands, over her shoulders and down her back, like warm, living silk.

Somehow he dragged his mouth from hers. He stared down at her. Her lips were pink and dewy and slightly swollen. Her lashes, thick and dark and spiked with tears, drifted open. He nearly groaned at the unguarded longing he glimpsed in her eyes. Did she know what she wanted? No, he decided. But
he
did.

His voice was ragged as he said, “Kiss me.” God above, she did, framing his face with her hands and turning her mouth up to his. He made a sound deep in his throat. The sweet clinging of her mouth was more than he could stand. His mouth opened; the kiss turned hot and devouring. Then his hands were at her shoulders, tugging her gown down to her waist. He heard her swiftly indrawn breath as her chemise took the same path as her gown. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breathing grew shallow. His eyes were dark and burning as he stared at her naked breasts. Her flesh gleamed ivory and pale in the lamplight, exquisitely round and full, and tipped by glorious rose nipples. He was dimly aware of her gaze shying away, of the pink stain which slowly spread upward to her cheeks.

With his palms he touched her nipples. She gasped as they sprang tight and eagerly erect into his hands. Clamping his jaw, he battled a rush of white-hot desire, but it was no use. His hands closed over her shoulders. He sank to the floor, pulling her along with him.

His breath came heavy and labored. There was a primitive pounding in his head. His blood was scalding. Desire churned in his gut like a raging storm from the sea. His shaft swelled thick and hard and full, straining to be free of its confinement.

His breath was harsh and scraping. He fumbled with the buttons of his breeches, freeing his manhood into his palm. His fingers closed around his burning shaft. His hand slid clear to the arching tip and back. Again, and yet again. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Her nearness was too tempting, and he was too desperate. Too needy. The thought of possessing her, of driving deep within her clinging channel, made him swell still further. Tonight, he thought raggedly, tonight he would bury his pain in her tender body, find respite in her softness, until nothing else existed. No past. No future. Only now.

Olivia knew it too.

She felt his hand beneath her skirts, lifting, sliding along her thighs and baring her to the waist. Her heart tumbled to a standstill. She slid her hands beneath his shirt, relishing the smooth hardness of his skin. All at once she was trembling from head to toe. But she cared not that he would vent his suffering inside her, only that she was close to him…as close as she could possibly be.

With his knees he parted her wide. She felt him,
his velvet-tipped heat, throbbing and scorchingly hot at the entrance to her core. She felt him breach those first outer petals, parting tender flesh that surrendered beneath the stunning pressure of his entry. Her thighs tensed; she couldn’t help it.

He must have felt it, for he kissed the base of her throat where her pulse beat wildly. “I won’t hurt you, Olivia. I won’t…” The words were a ragged whisper.

He raised his head. His eyes sheared straight into hers, hot and molten. With her hand she reached up to trace the rugged beauty of his mouth, an unconscious caress. Her thighs parted helplessly.

His eyes closed. His hands slid beneath her buttocks.

A single stroke of heated fire brought him deep inside her, clear to the gates of her womb.

Olivia’s breath left her in a scalding rush. She couldn’t withhold the startled cry that ripped from her throat. She clutched at his naked shoulders, her nails biting deep into his skin.

Dominic froze as he heard her cry. For one mind-splitting instant, he lay utterly still. But it was too late…too late. His blood surged hot and molten, there in the place he possessed so fully.
May God forgive me
, he prayed, for he couldn’t stop. The feel of her melting heat around his thickened spear shattered what little control he had left. He could do naught but bow to the frenzied demands of his body. He plunged inside her satin heat, imbedding himself deep—ever deeper, his passion unchecked, spurring him toward the rapture he knew awaited him.

Olivia closed her eyes, praying that the rending pain would subside…and it did. Even as his rod
claimed her again and again, so did his mouth, the pressure of his lips hotly fierce. He tasted of brandy…his torrid thrusts of a tormented hunger. She clung to him blindly, riding out the storm that swirled inside him.

In some faraway corner of his mind, Dominic knew he should have stopped. God, if only he could! But rational thought was impossible. It felt too good.
She
felt too good. The end was near. He could feel it building inside him. His thrusts quickened, until he was lunging almost wildly.

Then it happened. Everything inside him exploded. Wave after wave of scalding pleasure washed over him, through him. Arching his neck, he cried his ecstasy to the darkened room.

He shuddered, then collapsed against her. He felt her fingers sifting through the dark hair that grew low on his nape. Raising his head, his mouth sought hers. He tasted the saltiness of tears upon his lips…
Tears
.

That was his last awareness before he sank into oblivion.

Dominic awoke in his bedchamber lying facedown
on the bed. It was day, for a pale ribbon of light trickled through the drapes. He turned his head, only to regret it. Pain stabbed at his temples. He lay very still and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come again.

It was no use. A headache had begun to rage, but far eclipsing the pain was the feeling that he’d done something terrible, something regrettable. With a groan he eased to his back, staring up at the intricate pattern on the crimson bed hangings.

He had no recollection of coming to his bedchamber. The last he knew he’d been in his study. Vague, tantalizing memories snatched at his brain, memories of eager, willing lips and vital warmth, of immense sexual satiation. Christ, he must have been dreaming!

With a groan he pushed himself to a sitting position. This was a terrible way to awaken from such a glorious dream. He staggered to his feet, thinking that never again would he drink as he had last night. Stripping off his clothes, he made his way to the washbasin across the room.

An oval mirror hung above the washstand. As
he caught sight of his reflection, he noticed four distinct red lines scraped across the skin of his shoulder. It was then he chanced to glance down. His member was smeared with telltale traces of blood…

Blood that could only mean one thing.

His head jerked up. A stricken cry resounded in his brain. Olivia, he realized. Dear God,
Olivia
. It hadn’t been a dream at all. It had been real. It had been
real
.

Memories assailed him. Small hands on his shoulders. A soft, trembling body in his arms. The salty warmth of tears trapped between their lips. Panic leaped in his breast. She’d been crying.
Crying…

Fear wrapped its stranglehold around him. Christ, had he hurt her? She’d been so damnably small, her virgin passage so very tight. His mouth curled in self-derision. Immense sexual satiation indeed. He remembered lunging wildly into her, desperate to reach that pinnacle of pleasure.

Why the hell had she let him make love to her? Why hadn’t she stopped him?
You fool!
he berated himself viciously.
The blame rests squarely on your shoulders. It wasn’t her fault. You were drunk
. Self-disgust roiled in his belly. He’d shown her no tenderness, no care for her innocent state. He’d been too drunk—and too selfish—to care about anything but himself.

What the devil had he done?
Christ, he’d taken her on the floor like—like a doxy!

The memory washed through him again, and with it a fresh wave of molten desire—and something else. A cold fear assailed him, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Did she hate him for
what he’d done? Would she forever regard him with loathing and disgust?

He couldn’t bear the thought of either.

Another memory surfaced—that of a small hand, tender and soothing, stroking the nape of his neck as he lay spent and unmoving atop her body, his head buried against the hollow of her throat.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand
her
.

He willed aside the pain in his head and called for a bath, his mind churning. This was Sunday. Olivia wouldn’t be here. But this was the afternoon she taught the children. If he could catch her either before or after…

Christ! And if he did, what the hell was he to say to her?

It was early afternoon when he rode toward Stonebridge. The storm that had plagued the skies these last few days was gone. The air was comfortably warm and pleasant. Fluffy white clouds skidded across the sky.

Storm’s hooves echoed loudly on the wooden bridge that crossed the stream. Dominic noted idly that only a few feet separated the water from the bridge.

He’d just reached the outskirts of the village when a shout rang out. Glancing over, he saw several people run toward the stream. A man had stopped near several women outside the bakery shop; they pointed in the direction the others had taken. Here where the stream cut through the village, the waters were usually calm and placid; now, swollen by rainfall, they were a muddied brown, swirling and rushing.

Just then came another shout—and the unmis
takable scream of a child. What the devil…A frown upon his brow, Dominic straightened in the saddle.

What he saw sent a chill down the length of him. Two small heads were bobbing in the stream. He caught just a glimpse of flailing arms.

He swore beneath his breath but waited no longer. Vaulting from the saddle, he ran toward the stream. Without a second thought he dove headfirst into the water.

While Dominic could do nothing but remember the night just past, Olivia was determined to forget…a task far easier said than done, as she was discovering.

She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. “
Am I a Gypsy who’s lost his way? Or a
gadjo
who’s lost his way?
” Her heart bled as she thought of all he had endured at his father’s hand…Oh, James St. Bride had not been physically cruel—he had not beaten his son, not with hands or fists. Instead he had done so with words, unspeakably cruel words that had wounded a young boy’s soul. But now that boy had grown into manhood…

Yet still he suffered.

He knew not if he was Gypsy. Or
gadjo
. In truth, she reflected, he was just a man who’d lost his way…

She no longer wondered why he hated his father—James St. Bride. But that hatred was like a dreaded disease that spread throughout his being. He must put his hatred aside, or it would consume him forever…

And he would never find his way.

Olivia still could not explain what had possessed
her last evening, even to herself. She’d hated seeing him like that—so anguished, so alone.

If she was lucky, perhaps he wouldn’t remember—certainly he’d been quite foxed.

It had happened, she told herself over and over. But it would never happen again. And so she must put it aside and forget…

A piercing ache rent her breast. If only she knew how!

There was no doubt her mind was not where it should be. When Jane twice posed a question, Olivia knew it for certain.

She closed the book she’d been reading from. She summoned a smile. “I’m afraid, children, that I’ve developed a bit of a headache. I thought we might stop early today. Besides—” Her gaze encompassed the half-dozen faces gathered around her. “—it doesn’t appear as if I’ll be missed. Where is everyone today?”

“Gwyneth’s mother is ill and she’s tending to her,” Jane announced promptly. “Thomas went with his papa to York.”

“Henry and Jonny built a raft,” Colin piped up. “I helped,” he added proudly.

Olivia stood. Her hand cupped the back of his head. Colin had gradually lost his shyness during these past weeks. Though she doubted he would ever be as outspoken as his mother, he was a bright, sweet child whose gap-toothed grin melted her heart. “Did you now? Well then, it must be a very fine raft indeed.”

“Oh, it is,” he said earnestly. “Jonny said ’twould surely sail to China and back.”

Olivia smothered a smile. “No doubt,” she said gravely. “Though I do hope they intend to make
certain it floats before they set out on such a long journey.”

“Oh, they do,” Colin assured her. “’Tis why they are gone today.” The boy turned, then pointed. “Why, look! There they are!”

Olivia looked beyond the duck pond to the stream. Surely enough, Jonny and Henry were perched atop a small, square platform of wooden branches lashed together. Her heart leaped high into her throat, for the waters of the stream, normally so placid, churned treacherously.

Now it was a deadly torrent.

Even as they watched, the raft tipped precariously, dumping the pair into the raging current.

A cry broke from Olivia’s lips. “Oh, sweet heaven!”

Dimly she heard a shout for help. The boys’ heads bobbed up and down as they were carried along downstream. Midway to the opposite bank, a huge boulder jutted from the water; it was there the boys were headed. Through some miracle they managed to catch hold of a large root that grew across the surface. They clawed desperately to pull their heads free of the water. Olivia could only imagine the terror they felt, with the water churning madly, sucking at them, eager to drag them down into the murky depths.

It was reflected on their faces, the sheer, stark terror. She could see it from where she stood along the bank. Half a dozen others had joined her. Then, all at once, from the corner of her eyes there was a whir of movement. A man plunged headfirst into the stream.

Dominic.

Her heart in her throat, Olivia could only watch
as Dominic swam toward the rocks. Strong, even strokes took him toward the pair. Powerful legs kicking furiously, he reached them at last. With one hand anchored in a crevice, he shoved Jonny up and out of the water onto the flat, smooth slope of the rock. Jonny huddled there, wet and shivering as Dominic caught Henry beneath his arms. She could see him shouting instructions. He half-turned, and Henry flung his arms around his neck, shifting his weight to Dominic’s back. Thus encumbered, Dominic began the awkward swim back to the shore.

At last they were there, yet even then Henry refused to relinquish his hold on Dominic—perhaps he was unable to. His fingers had to be pried from Dominic’s throat.

Then it was back across the stream for Jonny, and the laborious task began anew. By the time they were halfway across, Jonny’s father James had arrived. Pale and white-faced, he charged into the stream and reached for his son.

Just then a large branch rushed by. It struck Dominic squarely in the temple. He had no time to find his footing. He was swept onward with nary a pause.

Olivia whirled. “Help!” she screamed. “Someone help him.” A wall of faces whirled before her. Robert Gilmore wore a telltale smirk upon his mouth. Gerald, who owned the alehouse, crossed his arms over his chest and stared. Even William refrained from moving.

It was to him she directed a dire plea. “Help him, please, William. Please help him!”

William regarded her in unremitting silence.

Olivia waited no longer. She stumbled along
downstream, trying desperately to keep him in sight.

Panic engulfed her as she saw him haul in a frantic rush of air before he was pulled under again. He was fighting the current…fighting to stay alive. Then a sudden rush of water began to carry him toward the bank. Everything within her leaped as he began to swim once more, but he was weak, his strength depleted. Yet somehow he made it. Near the bank, he staggered upright, only to collapse on the embankment.

He was lying on his back, just barely out of the water. Olivia reached him at last. With a cry she fell to her knees beside him. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Yet the hurt wasn’t nearly so intense as the pain that throbbed in her breast.

He was so still. There was a ragged cut on his temple. He was pale and white but for the blood that still flowed from the wound. His lashes were wet, dark crescents on his cheekbones. Olivia prayed as she’d never prayed before.

“Dominic? Dominic! Wake up! Dominic, please!”

She cradled his head in her lap, half-sobbing. “Can you hear me? Dominic, please, you can’t die! Dominic!”

His lashes fluttered. He opened his eyes. The merest smile grazed his mouth as he gazed up at her.

“I didn’t realize…I’d have to nearly drown…to hear you say my name.”

To Olivia’s shock, there was the veriest thread of unlikely laughter in his tone.

She ducked her head and wept.

It was James who loaned Dominic a set of dry clothing. Olivia took him back to the cottage, still furious that no one had come to his aid. Though he had made light of it, he might well have drowned!

Not until then did she realize how deep the bias against him ran.

Emily was standing in the parlor when they arrived. Olivia made a rather hurried introduction.

“Emily, I have with me the Earl of Ravenwood. My lord, this is my sister Emily.”

Dominic still held a bloodied rag to his temple. With his free hand, he reached for Emily’s. “’Tis an honor to finally meet you, Miss Sherwood.”

Emily murmured something; Olivia scarcely heard. All her attention was focused solely on Dominic. She was relieved to note some of the color had crept back into his skin. Quickly she ushered him into the kitchen to sit, then hurried to fetch clean cloths from the bedroom.

Emily followed her. “Olivia,” she said in a hushed, disapproving whisper, “whatever is he doing here?”

Olivia whirled. Her sister’s condemnation was the one thing she could not abide just now. “He’s injured, Emily Sherwood, and don’t you dare berate me for bringing him here.” She relayed what had happened in the village. “No one would help him, Emily,” she finished, her voice low and choked. “No one! They just stood by and—and watched! I—I cannot understand how they could be so—so cold! He’s not a monster—he’s no different than any of us! Why, it makes me ashamed to call Stonebridge my home!”

Emily’s features were grave. Perhaps she sensed
her sister’s distress, for she touched Olivia’s sleeve. “Is he all right?”

“Other than the cut on his head, I think so. Excuse me, Emily, I must tend to it.”

“I’ll be out in the garden,” Emily murmured.

Olivia nodded, took a deep, calming breath and retraced her steps to the kitchen.

Dominic glanced up when she reentered. She immediately set to work cleaning the wound, though she fretted that it had yet to cease bleeding.

“Perhaps you should see a physician.”

“No,” he said quickly. “There’s no need.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced at him. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Besides, I’d much rather have you tend me than some balding old man.”

Her cheeks pinkened. He had the feeling she was embarrassed. Oh, no, he wouldn’t stop her for the world. He liked the feel of her hands on him. He yearned to feel them elsewhere. Descending the ladder of his ribs, sliding lower. Lower still…

Her nearness—the clean, fresh scent of her—wreaked havoc on his senses. Her hair was caught in a knot on the back of her head. A tiny wisp curled against her nape. He had a sudden urge to plant his lips there, to taste her tender skin and see if it was as soft as it looked. As she dabbed at the cut on his temple, his hands settled on her waist—to steady her, should she ask. In truth it was but an excuse to touch her again. His eyes were level with the gentle thrust of her breasts.