Shadow Play (29 page)

She wept with the gladness, and as he began his movement against her, she clutched him in her arms and longed to sing out her joy. She felt like a bird given its freedom, soaring to a spiritual sun, blinded by its glory. And she knew it never,
never
could have been this way with Norman. This joy was too splendid. Too complete. Too perfect. There could never be another after tonight.
Ever

"Morgan. Morgan." The sound was an exaltation in the night, and she turned up her face to kiss him again.

His features were intense and beautiful. Oh, God, he was
so
beautiful, like a dark angel cast from some heaven into this virulent paradise of damnation. The very sight of him took her higher, and higher still until she was lost to thought, knowing only the sensation he was spinning and pumping inside her, grinding into her with every sleek, deep thrust of his hard body.

Her groans quickened as she moved her body against his, finding a strange thrill in the painful pleasure her morions seemed to bring him. She saw it in the clench of his jaw, the

squeezing shut of his eyes, the flash of his teeth as he grimaced and moaned and gasped with the lovely torment. He whispered her name over and over, a litany of love to the night shadows.

Some deep, dark fire seemed to grow inside her, burning her, startling her, giving rise to a strange and frightening need that she couldn't comprehend, taking control of her
breathing, spiraling into a tight blazing band that wound and wound with each strike of his body against that internal flame. Soft, panting animal sounds vibrated in her throat as she twisted against him. When the sobs poured from her throat, he covered her mouth with a kiss that only succeeded in taking her higher. She burst through the threshold, gasping and straining, and the world was a clash of bright lights and roaring sound, a glimpse of heaven amid the tumult.

And then the fall, like drifting on warm, peaceful air, and for an instant she wondered if she had died and touched God, so blissful was the peak of completion.

But now it was his turn. He gathered her to him, holding her close, his face buried in the hot curve of her throat and his body moving rapidly, powerfully, into and out of hers, and the swelling, straining length of him was like fire inside her, pounding and pounding until the passion was alive inside her again and she was pleading for surcease.

He took her there, rising to the apogee himself in that last instant, throwing back his dark head as his body stiffened and spilled deep inside her. As he eased onto her, the sound of their hearts seemed to fill up the quiet. But for the hush of rain against the roof and the vague beating of the drums, there was nothing.

Sarah closed her eyes. "I knew it would be wonderful, and it was. Only I didn't realize it would be so... glorious." She rolled her head and watched Morgan as best she could. His face was buried in her hair; his shoulders rose and fell heavily, raggedly. For a moment she imagined that he was weeping, and timidly she touched her fingertips to the side of his face. "Have I disappointed you?" she asked, distressed.

He shook his head.

"Displeased you? I'm sorry if I did. It was my first time after all, and—"

"Hush," he mumbled. "Just hush and let me get control of myself."

She laid back her head and stared at the tent overhead.

There came a soft plop-plop of water nearby, and she wondered if the canvas ceiling had started to leak.

Finally Morgan moved, sliding his body off and out of hers. He sat up and reached for his shirt, but did not look at her before wiping his face with the clothing. Then he cleared his throat. "It's hot. Isn't it?"

Sarah nodded and did her best to see his features through the shadows. When he didn't say anything more, she held out her hand and wrapped it lightly around his wrist. "I'd like you to stay with me for a while. Please?"

He lay down beside her again. For one of the few times in his life, he was lost for words. Oh, they were there, all right, poised on the tip of his tongue as they always were when he'd finished with one of his lovers. But the idea of saying one of those tired phrases to Sarah seemed a sacrilege. It would somehow taint the moment, and the magic between them. Make it something crude and ugly—as sordid as his past. She deserved something better...

Rolling into his arms, she rested her head on his shoulder while her fingers drifted through the hair on his chest. "All right?" he asked after a while.

She nodded.

"I was afraid of hurting you."

"You didn't. I enjoyed it very much. I'd like to do it again."

"Right now?"

She smiled.

"Chere,
you're insatiable."

Her head came up and she watched him with those wide eyes that were as naive as they had been an hour before. "I feel soulless without you," she said. "I feel as if some- one has reached a hand inside me and pulled out my heart.''

He laughed.

"I like it when you laugh," she told him. "It sounds so wonderfully masculine."

In the absence of light he could see nothing more than the dim outline of her face and the misty halo of her glorious
hair. He buried his hands in it and, drawing her face down to his, said, "I want you again already."

"Then take me. Again. And again and ... again."

He did, until they were panting and weak from exhaustion. When they finally fell
together thoroughly spent, into each other's arms, neither moved nor spoke for a long time. Cradling Sarah next to his heart, savoring the piercing sweetness of her presence, Morgan kissed her temples. He felt... reborn. For once he felt as if his damned, useless life was worth living.

There were a great many things he wanted to say, but dared he? These feelings Sarah had awakened in him were new, so new, and therefore frightening. Throughout the past weeks he'd done his best to deny to himself just how much she had come to mean to him. He'd driven himself mad by reminding himself that while a woman like Sarah might find pleasure in his bed, she was meant for men like her fiance— rich, educated, and refined. She would never stoop so low as to really fall in love with him, heart and soul. Or would she?

"I could stay here forever," came her voice in the darkness, making him smile despite his troubled thoughts.

"Careful what you wish for, Sunshine; it might come true."

"Would that be so bad?"

He lifted her chin and looked at her face, her enormous eyes, her smiling mouth. He smoothed her golden hair from her forehead, and where the words came from he couldn't guess, but they were said before he could stop them. "If I were to ask you to stay with me, would you? If I asked you not to return to England, but to remain here and marry me, would you do it?"

She did not move, but watched his face for a long, silent moment. Then, very slowly, she pulled away and sat up, turning her back to him.

He closed his eyes. Sarah looked around, her demeanor intense, something—fear or regret—haunting her face. She
watched him as if she knew her refusal to respond to his proposal had hurt him deeply, and was sorry for it. Perhaps she was also frightened, uncertain what he would do if he was angered.

He
was
angered. Yet beneath all that pent, violent fury remained the one burning reality. He loved Sarah, and he would continue to love her long after she had returned to Norman and taken her place in the society she so desperately craved. He could not hate her for her need to live out her life in comfort, surrounded by all the security that money and position could buy. Christ, the past weeks he had battled his way to Japura intending not only to avenge himself on Rodolfo King but also to rob the bastard of his gold, just so he could experience that sort of security himself... and perhaps buy the affections of someone who could lift him out of his hopelessness.

He reached for her, closed his fingers gently over her shoulder, and coaxed her down into

his arms. He stroked her hair for long minutes, and at last she looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. "Morgan," she whispered. "I—" He touched his finger to her lips. "I understand." "But I don't. Oh, God, I'm so confused." Her head, lying upon his chest, shook as she wept in the silence. He pressed his lips to her pale hair, smoothed it with his hand until he was certain she slept. Then from somewhere in the night came the sudden cracking of a tree limb, or perhaps it was simply the
curupira
weaving its mysterious magic over the hapless travelers. Sarah drowsily lifted her head and asked, "What was that noise?"

“Nothin'," he whispered, drawing her to him once again. Just the sound of his heart breaking...

Chapter Fourteen

The first thing he noticed when he crawled out of the tent was the marmoset perched on the edge of a bowl, feasting on a goiaba. Then he noted that it was morning. The sun was pouring through a break in the trees and spilling over the campsite as if sent directly from God as some testament of His favor.

Morgan stumbled to his feet, doing his best to pull his shirt closed, not quite managing it. Not quite managing to button his breeches either as they fell open. He was forced to grab them before walking stiffly toward the staring monkey.

He felt like hell.

Then he saw Henry sitting on a fallen tree trunk, glaring at him with blazing black eyes and quivering white bones in his nose. Henry leapt from the tree and dashed across the clearing before Morgan could collect his scattered thoughts enough to speak, much less sidestep the fist Henry drove into his stomach. Morgan doubled over, had barely recovered before his head was snapped back with a splintering crack across his jaw that spilled him to the ground. Henry threw himself atop him then, as if he were mounting a horse, and proceeded to pummel Morgan's face and chest and stomach. Morgan did his best to shield himself, to little avail. His nose was bleeding profusely and the taste of blood was sickening.

"Blast your black heart!" Henry declared and before Morgan could blink his stupor away, Henry had jumped up, grabbed up a rifle, and leveled it at his face. "You bastard, I was under the mistaken assumption that you were more noble than to seduce an innocent like Sarah."

"I didn't—"

"Shut up, and for once in your miserable, worthless life, listen to what I have to say.

Sarah's not a whore you can use when you're feeling like you need to take a poke at the world. You've ruined her; do you realize that?"

"Get that goddamn gun out of my face before I get mad. Or use it. Go on. Put me out of my misery so I won't bleed to death. Christ, I think you've broken my nose."

"Good! It serves you right! I'd like to break something else, and I just might before we're finished." Henry tossed the rifle to the ground and, doubling his fists, curled them up in front of his face. "Put 'em up. I mean it, Kane. I demand the right to call you out."

"Should I stand on my knees to make it fair?"

Sarah's voice interrupted them.' 'What's going on here?''

"I'm defending your honor," Henry proclaimed. "This black-hearted swine took advantage of you, Sarah, and I cannot abide it. Stand back, this could get ugly."

"Oh. Oh... my. But, Henry, it was I who took advantage of him," she confessed, her pale cheeks turning pink. Walking to the pygmy, she stooped and pressed a kiss to his cheek. More quietly, she said, "This is very embarrassing, but I invited him into my tent last night."

He looked unsettled.

"I hope you won't think unkindly of me," Sarah continued. "But I was frightened when I heard the drums."

"You might have called out to me," he stressed. "At least then he would not have had the opportunity to... well..."

"You're right, and I apologize. But what's done is done, and if I've offended you I'm extremely sorry."

"You? Offend?" Dropping his hands, he turned to face her. "Sarah, my dear, you could do nothing of the sort.
He
is the one who should suffer the consequences.
He
should have known better." He pointed to Morgan, who had by now managed to sit up, despite the ringing in his ears and the blood streaming from his nose.

Hair spilling wildly about her shoulders, shirt buttoned crookedly, Sarah looked away from Henry and around the camp. Morgan watched the realization turn her sleepy features into wide-eyed alertness as she cocked her head, listening for the drums. The jungle was silent. "Surprise," he drawled. "We're still alive."

"The Xavante?" she asked.

"Just as I'd hoped," Henry explained. "They've decided to leave us alone. But that's no

guarantee they won't attack at some future hour."

She turned to Morgan, for the first time registering concern at his busted nose and mouth. That was short-lived, however, as she said to Henry, "We should get out of here as soon as we can, put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the Xavante. Where are the others? Why haven't they broken camp?"

"Kan is scouting the area, and I've sent out the other five in search of food and water."

"And the others?" She watched Henry's face expectantly.

"There are no others. They absconded during the night, with several of our rifles, I might add. I don't expect to see any of them again. I sent Kan and the rest out over two hours ago—"

"Kan would never desert me!" Sarah said. "Yes, well, take my word for it, Sarah, you cannot always depend on those closest to you. When push comes to shove they are going to think about themselves first." Henry shot Morgan a glance before walking to the fire.

Sarah stood in a pool of sunlight and gazed toward the floresta. Comprehension had settled in. The morning was several hours old; she was alive.

Sarah did not look toward Morgan as he brushed past her and dropped to one knee near the fire. Yet in time her eyes were drawn to him, and her mind tumbled with the night's memories, bringing a rise of color to her face. She moved to the fire and knelt beside him, pretending to play with the marmoset while she gathered her courage to confront the problem. Morgan had managed to stop his nose from bleeding and was doing his best to button his blood-spattered shirt. She noted that his hands were shaking and his eyes were troubled. "Can I help?" she offered.