Susan Carroll (23 page)

Phaedra felt as though every forbidden desire
she'd kept locked away in her heart all these years lay exposed
before Armande. Was there ever any lady who would have thus
bartered her virtue? She might as well have begged for Armande to
take her, like any street harlot. Her cheeks burned with shame, and
she could not meet his eyes.

"You cheated, milady," he said softly. "I
declare this game forfeit to me."

But she heard no censure, no triumph in his
voice. If anything, he sounded infinitely sad.

By the time Phaedra reached her bedchamber,
the storm had ceased its ominous threatening and erupted in all its
fury. The rain poured down her window panes. The night raged,a
tympany of thunder and violent clashes of lightning, as Lucy helped
Phaedra shrug into her night shift. The linen clung to her skin as
she slipped beneath the sheets. She was so tense that she hardly
permitted her head to rest against the pillow.

As soon as Lucy had gone, Phaedra flung aside
the bedclothes. Stumbling through the darkness, she fumbled with
the tinder box and managed to light the stump of a candle. Her gaze
traveled to the door connecting to Armande's bedchamber. Her heart
fluttered like the wings of a bird about to fly of its own volition
into the hunter's snare.

And Armande? She wondered what he was
feeling, waiting for her on the other side of that door. He had
walked away from the card table, trying to summon a smile as though
the entire game had been but flirtatious nonsense.

But his laughter had been hollow, the longing
in his eyes keen enough to pierce her heart. He would not hold her
to the wager; she knew that. She had but to return to her bed, pull
the covers up tight about her neck and try to lose herself in the
oblivion of sleep.

Her gaze shifted to the dressing-table
mirror. Her image appeared almost unearthly in the dim light, a
pale spirit garbed in flowing white. She arranged the ripples of
red-gold hair over her shoulders in a modest effort to conceal the
rose-tipped crests of her breasts, visible beneath the transparent
gown. She glided toward the connecting door like a sleepwalker, no
more able to control her steps than she could put a halt to the
thunder rending the skies.

She reminded herself that Armande was still a
man enshrouded in mystery, his hidden past a threat to her. He
could be the Prince of Darkness himself, for all she knew. She
tried to recall the passion that had betrayed her once before,
delivering her into seven years of hellish captivity as Ewan's
bride. But memory grew dim until all she could remember was the
heat of Armande's kiss.

Her fingers slid back the bolt, the door
whispering open beneath her trembling hand. She held the guttering
candle before her like a talisman as she stepped across the
threshold into Armande's chamber.

"Armande?" she called softly.

"I am here." His voice sounded at once
distant and startlingly close. She jumped as the room was illumined
by a jagged flash of lightning, revealing the outline of Armande's
muscular form but a few feet from her, as though he had been
lingering by the door, tense and waiting. He was garbed in his
close-fitting breeches, and his white shirt, unbuttoned to the
waist, exposing the vee of his chest. He stretched out one arm to
her, extending his hand.

Her faltering steps guided her closer, the
dim light of the candle giving the pitch-dark room a misty quality.
It reminded her strangely of the dream she had had of Armande so
many nights before, when she had returned from Lady Porterfield's
ball. That tormenting dream of so many endings, as she had stripped
away Armande's mask, one time to find death, another desire. What
awaited her now in those angular features lost in shadow, the
watching eyes but a glint in the darkness?

She had an urge to snuff out the candle and
not look upon an expression that might turn the dream into a
nightmare. But Armande took it from her before she could do so. In
the brief moment he held the taper, his face was fully revealed to
her. His sable-dark hair swept back from his brow in damp waves,
beads of moisture clinging to the high planes of his cheeks almost
as though he had been out walking in the storm. The force of the
tempest appeared caught in his eyes, stripping away all illusion of
the cold, haughty marquis, leaving but a man, vulnerable, his
emotions as raw and untamed as her own.

Phaedra never had imagined anything like the
tender way he pulled her into his arms. She could feel the pulse in
his throat drumming against her temple.

"I should send you away, but I need you," he
said hoarsely. “You have no idea how long I've needed you."

His voice sounded so strange. She did not
understand what anguish deepened those lines about his mouth. For
tonight, she did not want to know. No man had ever needed her
before, and her heart responded to that appeal.

She longed to ease the pain wracking his
brow. Stretching up on tiptoe, she whispered kisses against his
mouth, his jaw, the curious tiny scar at the base of his neck. He
groaned and buried his face in her hair. The candle sputtered and
went out, leaving them in darkness, clutching each other as though
they stood not in the security of the bedchamber but lost somewhere
in the rage of the storm.

He swept her up in his arms, carrying her to
the bed. She wound her arms about his neck, clinging to him even
after he had laid her down, stretching out beside her.

"Phaedra," he murmured. There was again that
strange huskiness, a kind of wonder in the way he spoke her name.
"You seem more spirit than flesh. I can scarce believe you are
real."

"I am real," she assured him. Indeed she had
never felt so alive as she did this night. She upturned her face to
receive his kiss, allowing her lips to part in invitation. His
tongue mated with hers, filling her with fire, the kiss becoming
more urgent, more demanding.

He deftly undid the ribbons of her nightgown,
his breath coming quickly. When he stripped away the linen, Phaedra
shivered as the cool air struck her skin. Even in the darkness of
the room, she felt conscious of her nakedness. Ewan had never
bothered to undress her.

She knew Armande couldn't see her face, but
somehow he read her feelings all the same. He pulled back the
counterpane and nestled her beneath its downy depths, then stood to
remove his own clothing. As he peeled off his breeches and shirt,
the lightning burst outside the window behind him in a series of
quick flashes, outlining the sinewy strength of his limbs, his
broad chest and stalwart shoulders. He stood before her like some
god from the pagan tales of old, borne in by the winds of the
storm, come to fulfill every fantasy she'd ever dared to dream in
her lonely bed.

He slipped beneath the coverlet, drawing her
back into his arms, resuming their kiss. The first contact of his
bare flesh with her breasts sent shock waves tingling along her
skin.

"Phaedra ... my sweet Phaedra." He breathed
her name in a fierce whisper, making her love the sound of it upon
his lips. Yet once again she found something vaguely disturbing and
different in the seductive tones of his voice, like notes of a
familiar melody played out of key.

But she forgot all else as he kissed her
again. His hands moved over her, paying homage to every curve of
her body. She fought to keep her own hands still. During those
brief times Ewan had taken her, he had never liked her to caress
him. He had said her fingers were coarse and clumsy.

Yet as Armande brushed against her, her hands
seemed to move of their own accord, reveling in the texture of his
hair-roughened chest, the feel of hard muscle corded beneath the
pulsing heat of his flesh. Fearful of his reaction, she hesitated,
but when he made no move to stay her, her palm skimmed lower,
seeking out the most mysterious region of his masculinity, the
velvet sheath of his manhood.

She heard the hiss of Armande's indrawn
breath as her fingers closed about him. She was wicked, shameless.
In another moment, he would thrust her away in disgust. But he
emitted a low groan and pressed kisses behind her ear, a shudder
shaking his frame. His caresses became more urgent.

Gently he forced her to her back, suspending
himself above her.

"My love ... can wait no longer." His voice
was a plea, nearly apology. But she already was opening to him,
bracing herself for the first violent thrust.

He eased himself so carefully inside her, it
was she who felt the need to pull him closer. His slow, rhythmic
stroking evoked waves of pleasure, and yet a part of her tensed,
resisting the culmination of their passion, the fulfillment which
had been forbidden her for so long.

Armande bent down and kissed her, deep and
hard. "Don't deny yourself, Phaedra," he breathed. "Surrender."

Mercilessly, he increased the tempo of their
mating, each movement calculated to drive her to the fever pitch of
desire. She closed her eyes, aware of Armande's hoarse cry, the
shudders wracking his frame, moments before a wondrous sensation
burst inside of her. The exquisite pleasure was far too intense to
last for long, but when it was gone she was filled with a sense of
sweet release.

More sweet and miraculous still, Armande's
strong arms yet banded her close to him even as he sank exhausted
beside her, drawing in deep breaths, pressing his lips against her
hair. Ewan always had-

As her pulses slowed to a more normal rhythm,
Phaedra cradled her head against Armande's shoulder, not
suppressing the thought of Ewan so much as simply losing it.
Suddenly, it did not matter what her husband had done or said.
Somewhere in the dark, in the gentle fury of Armande's lovemaking,
it was as though the shadow of Ewan Grantham had been banished from
her life. She felt so warm and secure lying in Armande’s arms, and
content-a rare emotion for her restless heart. A deep sigh escaped
her.

Armande planted a kiss upon her forehead, and
she could feel the smile curving his lips as he asked, "Was that a
sigh of pleasure or regret, milady? Perhaps you are sorry you
strove so hard to lose the game."

Phaedra vehemently shook her head. Sorry? How
could he even ask such a thing? She had no words to describe what
Armande had done for her. He had given back so much of what Ewan
had stolen from her-her belief in herself as a desirable woman,
capable of giving love and receiving it.

"No, I shall never regret this night. No
matter what happens."

"Hush, Phaedra. You tempt fate with such
reckless vows." He tipped back her head, covering her mouth with
his own as though in some superstitious dread of what her words
might invoke, their kiss the charm that would hold evil at bay.

Phaedra melted willingly into his embrace.
She wanted only for him to hold her, any doubts vanquished by the
darkness and the warmth of their bodies entwined. Once more she was
lost to everything but Armande and his tender caress.

It was some time later when she first
realized the storm had ceased, leaving only the rain. She nestled
against Armande, both of them lulled by the pattering against the
window. There was no need to think or say anything more tonight, to
remember anything but Armande's lovemaking, how gentle, how fierce
he had been.

Her eyes fluttered closed, drifting into a
state of half-dreaming, half-waking. She splayed her hand upon
Armande's sweat-dampened chest, her fingers rising with the deep,
regular rhythm of his breathing. He felt so warm. Even as he slept,
she could yet sense the pulse of his lifeblood rushing through his
veins. And to think, the first night she had met him, she had
thought him so cold, a man carved of ice and snow.

Her lips tilted into a drowsy smile. Ah, but
he was French. Did not Frenchmen like to boast they were the most
skilled of lovers? From the beginning, she had been seduced as much
by the silken tones of his voice calling her
ma chere

His voice ... Once again something niggled at
the back of her mind, a vague uneasiness. But Phaedra could no
longer resist the pull of her own exhaustion. The disturbing
thought drifted further and further out of reach. Cocooned in the
security of Armande's arms, she fell asleep.

Dawn crept past the windowsill, shading the
bedchamber in hues of pearly gray and soft rose. The morning star
came up on a world new-washed by the storm, tinting the sky with
promise of a bright summer's day. But for Phaedra, the strength of
those first rays striking her eyelids were an annoyance, an
intruder come to steal away her dreams.

Such sweet dreams they were-of a dark-haired
lover with chilling gaze and burning touch, a man of ice and fire.
She flung one hand over her eyes, trying to shut out the insistent
sunlight, cling to the image of the hero the storms had cast into
her bed. But as she stirred, she became aware of something pinning
her to the bed.

Her eyes opened and focused with some
confusion upon the naked length of her own body, the paleness of
her skin in marked contrast to the powerful arm banding her waist.
Her gaze traveled up the length of the arm, to a sinewy shoulder, a
broad expanse of bare back, her eyes finally coming to rest upon
the countenance of the man who slept beside her, flat on his
stomach, his face half-buried in the pillow.

It hadn't been a dream. A blush firing her
cheeks as the events of last night flooded back to her. She had
truly taken Armande as her lover. But what had seemed so right, so
natural in the dark of night now seemed a little overwhelming in
the cold light of day.

She tried to ease herself out from beneath
the weight of Armande's arm, groping for the counterpane. But the
movement woke him at once. He flung himself over onto his back and
jerked to a sitting position, his hand flying to the scar on his
throat. In that unguarded moment, Phaedra thought she saw an
expression akin to terror in Armande's eyes.