Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (33 page)

“Your try at playing Cupid by making Michel a martyr appears to have succeeded, even if you were felled by your own arrow.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed? I can’t think why I should be.” The words were spoken almost at random. She put her hand on his wrist, removing his fingers from his injury. The flow of blood had slowed, almost stopping. Her movements quick, she began to strip his shirt from the waist of his trousers. It was, unfortunately, one made in the old style, without a front opening. It would have to come off over his head.

“You appear to have lost a devoted admirer, while being forced to patch up a mere husband.” He reached to pick up a fat silver-gold curl that had rolled forward in front of her shoulder and sat rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

“There is no question of force.” In fact, she was glad to have something to do so she would not have to think about the moment the sword had plunged into his flesh. She also prized these moments, however brief they might be, when he needed her.

“Lift your arms, please, as much as you can.”

He released her hair to do as she asked, ducking his head so she could pull the bunched shirt off over his head. The movement left his hair rakishly tousled, but he made no move to smooth it. Watching her while she discarded the shirt and picked up the cloth in the bowl to squeeze the excess water from it, he said, “There was also no question of making him a martyr.”

She met his clear green gaze, her own startled. “You mean you picked a quarrel with Michel because he — because you thought he was an admirer?”

“Not precisely, though I had my reasons.”

She absorbed that as she moved nearer to him and reached with her cloth to wipe the edges of his injury. He rested his left hand at her waist, halting her movements while he shifted one long leg out of the way. He then drew her between his knees so she had better access to his shoulder. He did not remove his hand, but settled it more firmly on her hip.

The position was practical, and more comfortable than leaning forward to reach him. It was also disturbing in its familiarity. Though she slept beside him in the night, and often woke lying against him, she was not used to casual intimacy during the course of the day.

She kept her eyes lowered while she attended to the task at hand. As the seconds ticked past, however, a feeling of strain invaded her senses. It was not helped by his thumb moving in a slow circle around her hipbone.

“These reasons,” she said in an effort to maintain some degree of normality, “I don’t suppose you mean to tell me what they might be.”

“I am waiting with bated breath,” he said, inhaling sharply as she came too near the quick, “to see if you can puzzle that out for yourself.”

A frown drew her brows together. There was no time to answer, however, for Tit Jean reappeared with the brandy tray.

There were two glasses, and the manservant poured out two measures of the fiery liqueur. Angelica, at his insistence, sipped a little of the one that he pressed into her hand. She nearly choked on it, though after a moment, it did seem to help melt the knot of lingering disturbance inside her. Nevertheless, the best use for the brandy, she thought, was to clean the sword cut.

The fumes rose to her head as she tipped the glass to wet a clean cloth, then used it to sponge the deep stab injury. With the utmost care, she allowed a little to seep into the center.

Perhaps the alcohol did something for her mental processes, for it was as she was reaching for a pad of linen to cover the wound that abrupt enlightenment came to her. She met Renold’s eyes an instant, then returned to what she was doing as she considered it.

The purpose of the duel had never been to elicit compassion for Michel, or to draw out his half-sister’s feelings for his friend; that was not Renold’s way. His intention, rather, had been to make of Michel a hero, a man who had stood up for Deborah in argument and carried that argument to its extreme, a meeting on the field of honor.

She said with a trace of wonder, “You planned for Michel to win. You intended to be injured.”

“In a manner of speaking.” The lids of his eyes curtained his expression. Tilting his head, he gave his attention to a one-handed operation at the front fastening of her gown.

He meant, Angelica realized, that his objective had been to fight just well enough to make it a fair fight, then allow his friend first blood. A slice on the upper arm, a small cut to the face or body would have been sufficient. Honor would have been satisfied. Renold had not meant to allow himself to be injured quite so bloodily.

Asperity was strong in her voice as she said, “Don’t you think making a pincushion of yourself over Deborah’s affair of the heart is going a bit too far?”

“My sister is a darling girl, and it’s my pleasure to aid her in so far as I am able. But Deborah’s heart had nothing to do with it.”

Her gown was growing loose at the waist; he had been assiduously releasing the buttons. Distracted by the warm brush of his fingers against her, she could not think. Yet it seemed obvious that if Renold was to have been the martyr, then he was the one intended to arouse compassion.

Whose compassion did he want? Whose heart was involved?

Hers.

So what benefit was he to gain? What had actually happened out there on the gallery?

She had shown clearly her fear and concern. He had gained a greater knowledge of how much she cared.

But why would these things matter to him, unless he valued how she felt, unless he wanted to prove for himself the loving concern she had shown in answer to his mother’s probing earlier?

There were two possible reasons why he might like to know that she cared. The first was to bind her closer to him, to make certain that Bonheur was his because she was attached to him by ties of love.

Then there was the other one, the one she hardly dared consider, much less believe. He just might want to know she loved him because he cared for her.

Chapter Eighteen

“Have you no interest in any other heart?”

She felt the vibration of his voice under her fingers as he spoke. It took an eternity to turn her head and meet his gaze.

The lamp on the washstand was reflected in the dark green surface of his eyes. It burned so steadily in the close room that the twin spots of golden light did not waver. His skin was burnished bronze, his hair caught the lamp’s rays in a blue-black shimmer.

In the bedchamber beyond the door, the carving of the high bed had the rich patina of age. The gilded and lacquered crucifix above it, image of a more exalted martyr, shone red and gold. A leather-bound book with a clasp and latch of silver lay on the table beside the bed, resting on a crocheted cloth that looked like a fragile spiderweb. Roses, full-blown and sweet-scented, were arranged beside the book, drooping over the edges of an alabaster vase. In the warm silence, the sudden shattering of a pale pink blossom was loud, the petals rustling down in their inevitable destruction.

“You might have been killed,” she said, and despaired as she saw that the words gave her away. Or maybe she had meant that they should.

“It’s impossible to calculate the reactions of every person around you, each with their own needs and fears. You do what you can to achieve what you must.”

“And what did you hope to achieve?”

“An epiphany,” he said. “What else? The manifestation of perfect love. A nadir of blessedness in married bliss. I wanted,” he added deliberately, “to see if you were content as my wife.”

She was still an instant before she leaned to wrap the linen band around the back of his shoulder, smoothing the strip. She said, “It would have been considerably less drastic to ask.”

“Yes, and to discover what? Lukewarm politeness, or possibly a ladylike assurance that all women are fond of their husbands on principle and as a matter of convenience. I required something with more passion.”

Passion. It was a melodramatic word by its very nature, and could never be less. It could, however, be more. It was her task to prevent that. High drama would not help her. She said, “Then I’m afraid you may have been disappointed.”

“I never expected you to fling yourself between the swords like Deborah; that would have been mere loss of confidence. So no, I wasn’t disappointed.” He leaned forward to make it easier for her to wrap the bandaging around the back of his shoulder. At the same time, he slid both hands inside her gown. He spanned her corseted waist so his fingertips met at front and back, then skimmed higher to cup her lawn-shrouded breasts.

She caught her breath on a small gasp. Closing her eyes, she swallowed quickly, then forced them open again. Her fingers not quite so nimble as before, she brought the roll of bandaging around to the front for the last time, tore the end in half lengthwise to form two strips and tied a flat knot. Placing her hands at the firm column of his neck, she tested the pulse which beat there with her thumb. She gathered courage, then looked into his eyes.

“Epiphanies require faith,” she said, “faith comes from trust, trust is the result of truth. I might be more content as a wife if I could be sure I was ever a bride.”

She watched the wrath darken his face, felt its rise in his blood under her touch. She also saw it fade almost immediately, settling into thoughtfulness.

“If it matters so much,” he said tentatively, “there may be a way to manage it. We could repeat the wedding ceremony before a priest here at Bonheur.”

She drew back a little. “You would do that?”

“Why not?”

“It would be a great deal of trouble.” There was amazement in the words.

“It doesn’t matter if it will ease your mind and make matters as they should be between us.” His thumbs brushed the crests of her breasts, turning the nipples into tight buds of arousal.

“Even if you have already spoken the vows?” she said without a great deal of coherence.

“Saying them again won’t make them less binding, and may make them more so.” Busy under her clothing, he released the tape of her petticoats so that her skirts sagged against his knees. He smiled into her eyes as he said, “But I hope you wrapped my shoulder up well, for I don’t intend waiting to exercise the more pleasurable of marriage rites.”

Surely his willingness was proof he had not lied?
Or perhaps she only wanted to be convinced of it. In any case, she could not deny the gladness rising inside her. And if passion was what he wanted, it was within her also, a passion of appreciation for his generosity, of thankfulness that his injury was no worse, of spirit that he desired her now.

More than these, things, she wanted him with a rich, burgeoning need that had nothing to do with promises, past or future. The heat of his skin under her hands was an incitement, the hard muscles of his legs around her made her weak with longing. She wanted to be held close against him, to feel his mouth on hers and his hands urging her to fulfillment. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to say it for fear he might condemn her for wantonness or discover more passion in her than was proper or needful.

She did not have to speak. He was so near it was only necessary to lower her gaze to the firm curves of his lips and sway a little closer. His smile faded as he released a hand to cup her face and draw her mouth against his own.

Clothes, there were so many clothes. Maddening in their weight and fullness, they clung and billowed, resisted removal with knotted ties and recalcitrant hooks and binding seams. Renold made a game of divesting her of them, however, placing a kiss in the bend of her elbow as he drew off the long sleeve of her gown, demanding the reward of a kiss for every hook undone on her corset, tracing the line of her chemise over her breasts as he pulled the cap sleeves down her arms.

He castigated the designer of pantalettes and suggested lascivious compensations if she should decide to dispense with them in the future. And so impatient was he with her garters after he tugged off her slippers that he left them and her stockings on as he bent to carry her to the bed.

“No, don’t,” she said in startled objection. “You’ll start your shoulder bleeding again. I can walk.”

“Backward?” he inquired. Without waiting for an answer, he rose from the chair and held her against him, mouth to mouth, while he stepped carefully toward a goal she quickly lost all sense of, certainly could not see.

A soft edge nudged the backs of her thighs. It was the low, single-width accouchement bed that sat against one wall of the dressing room. She sat down on it with more suddenness than grace.

Renold went to one knee before her. His voice rich with amusement and purpose, he said,
“I used to think about having you on the bed like this in New Orleans. Constructing elaborate fantasies of what I would do, and what you would say, kept me sane while I tried to get at least a little sleep.”

“You — wanted me then?” she said, the words jerky as he smoothed the calloused palms of his hands up her thighs and around her to clasp her hips.

“I wanted you from the moment I saw you, a desire — you must believe me — which had nothing to do with Bonheur or your father. Every time I wake and find you in my bed, every time I watch you brush your hair or look at you across the table, see you mount the stairs, walk across the floor, smile, frown, yawn, sneeze, I want you more. You fill my waking moments and walk naked through my dreams. If a time should come when I can no longer have you, I will go slowly, inevitably insane.”

She wanted to believe it, could think of no reason for doubt. It was enough for the moment. She allowed her gaze to move with painful pleasure over the planes and angles of his face, though she avoided the emerald fire of his eyes. Inside her, a great pressure of longing rose, bringing with it the slow heat of a flush that had nothing to do with anger or embarrassment

She felt voluptuous in her nakedness, wanton and wicked with only her jet earrings in her ears and black silk stockings to just above the knees held with blue silk garters embroidered with roses and studded with ribbon knots. She wanted him to be naked and wicked with her.

Reaching out she made trails with her fingertips through the curling hair of his chest, touched the copper coins of his paps. The soft hiss of his indrawn breath was an incitement and she rubbed slowly back and forth across the small taut knots of his nipples.

“Wait,” he said, the deep timbre his voice like a caress. Rising, he stared down at her for long moments, his warm gaze touching the line of her throat, the pearl-like sheen of the globes of her breasts, the smooth white perfection of her thighs. Slowly, he put his hands to the waistband of his trousers.

She had never watched him undress before. He had come to her naked or in the dark, or else she had turned her head in modesty or to allow him privacy. Her lashes fluttered now and she swallowed, but she did not look away. Her pulse leaped as she realized she need not, that he would not mind her interest. She was more than merely interested, she acknowledged in newfound honesty. There was fascination for her in waiting for his body to be revealed.

A faint smile touched at his mouth. His movements became deliberate. Watching her with a tantalizing gleam in the depths of his eyes, he released the buttons at the front flap of his trousers, then made short work of the row that closed the concealed opening. Underneath, he wore linen drawers, and he unfastened these also. Without faltering, he spread the vee-shaped opening wide, exposing the flat, hard expanse of his abdomen and the narrow line of hair that dived down to a darker shadow. Then in a single, supple movement, he stripped off trousers and underdrawers together.

Splendid in the lamplight, rampantly naked, he turned from tossing his clothing aside. Facing her, he tilted his head, lowering his hands to his sides. The amusement vanished from his face, to be replaced by still watchfulness. A trace of darker color appeared under his skin.

Graceful, yet powerfully masculine, he was beautiful in the perfect proportions of his body, in the sculpting of muscle and the cording of the veins across them. His days without a shirt in the sun of Bonheur had given him a definite demarcation line between torso and lower body, so that he seemed like some mythical creature, half lusty inhabitant of the heated day and half ethereal being of the moonlit night. His male organ, strutted in arousal, was silken, enticing, yet foreign, a lure and also a threat. Angelica felt the compression of the muscles of her stomach, and also the contraction of deeper, more vital muscles and nerves.

She moistened her lips, held out her hands. Her voice soft with doubt and entreaty, she said, “Renold—”

He returned to one knee, taking her fingers and pressing them to his lips. Eyes shuttered, head bent, he turned her palms upward and laved the sensitive surface with the wet heat of his tongue. She shivered, her body inclining toward him so that her forehead touched the crisp waves of his hair.

With a hand on either stocking-clad knee, he inserted himself between them, holding her legs wide. He bent his head to kiss the tops of her knees, then follow the encircling garter with his tongue. At the same time, his hands spanned her slender waist, tested the satin surface of her skin at her abdomen, the tops of her thighs and between them. Faithfully and with slow precision, he followed the same path with his lips before moving inward.

His touch at the delicate, many-petaled opening of her body was tender, careful, impossible to avoid in her position. She caught her breath with the wonder of it, then closed her eyes and stifled a low moan as with lips and tongue he traced and tasted her. Drifting in perfect delight, she discovered how wanton she could be. Her most secret recess was open to his gaze; she knew he looked and did not care. At the center of her being there was a hot, melting sensation and a tense emptiness that only he could fill. Nothing mattered except that he not stop until that was done.