Sweet Savage Eden (22 page)

Then they were gone. Jamie poured two cups of coffee and brought her one. She accepted it with a soft “Thank you.”

“Breakfast is usually in the dining room,” he told her,
“and usually much more substantial. In good weather we eat in the back, on the terrace.”

She sipped her coffee, then she set down her cup. Jamie watched her broodingly as she suddenly streaked from the bed and into the tub. She howled at the heat of the water, and, he was certain, had he not been standing there, she’d have jumped back out of the water. She sat, though, winding her hair above her head to keep it dry. She realized then that she hadn’t the soap or a cloth.

Jamie brought her both, still sipping his coffee. He dropped the cloth and the soap upon her and moved to the mantel, where he had a wonderful view of her. She lifted a long leg and scrubbed it, and then she remembered that he was there. With a scowl she slipped back into the tub.

“Please, don’t let me disturb you.”

“You do disturb me.”

“Do I?”

He set his cup upon the mantel. Her breasts were level with the height of the water, her nipples even with it. She saw the intent in his eyes as he approached her, and she let out a little sound of protest. He barely heard her. A rash of desire raged in his head, and he heard nothing but the driving wind of it. He knelt by the tub and took the soap and cloth in his hands. He laved her breasts with the suds and the piece of linen. “Don’t!” she whispered, leaning back, swallowing. He stretched his hand downward and between her legs, and she cried out, but he ignored her. She brought her hands against him, but then they went limp, and she lay back in the tub. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes closed. Her head rolled back and forth. “Don’t … please, don’t.”

He lifted her out of the tub. He laid her down upon the sheets, and when she tried to twist away, they both saw the stains on the sheets where her virginity had been lost. She twisted again and met his eyes. “No …”

He unbelted his robe and let it fall to the floor. She closed her eyes again and started to roll away. He straddled her, stopping her, whirling her around to face him.

“I just washed
you
away!” she cried.

He arched a brow. “No, madame. You washed for my pleasure and convenience.”

“Oh!”
She tried to sit. He caught her shoulders and led her back. Her eyes were wild and somewhat panicked as she stared at him then. “Lie still!” he commanded her impatiently. “It should not be loathsome, and you should not feel pain. You should lie there, seeking me, as I seek you.”

“No!”

“But you will in time, I swear it.”

“You are an insolent pest!”

“Lie still, madame. I will prove it.” He took his hands off her. She bit into her lip and tried to squirm from beneath him. “Uh-uh, milady. Still. Unless, of course, you wish to scream and weep and writhe with passion.”

She swore again. He laughed, caught her wrists, and pressed her back to the bed. “I will kiss you whenever and wherever I choose, Jasmine,” he whispered, and then he set out to prove it.

She did not protest, twist, or fight. Her lips parted easily beneath his, and he kissed her deeply, feeling the rise of passion, of haunting, desperate desire. At last he raised his lips from hers. They remained parted, moist, and her breath came from her in little gasps. Her eyes, glazed and wide, met his. He smiled. Thunder and lightning raged through him, demanding he take her there and then, but he did not. He met her gaze, and his smile was wicked. He held her eyes while touching and playing with her breasts, and moved his hands ever lower and more intimately upon her. She tried to close her eyes. “Look at me!” he told her, and for a moment she did. But then he moved from her and parted her thighs. She closed her eyes again. “No!” she protested in a weak whisper. “No, no …”

He caught her foot, kissed the sole of it, and ran his tongue over her toes. He parted her thighs wider. When she tried to bring them back together, he spread them with his shoulders, allowing her no retreat. He stroked her thighs, and then he gave deliberate and piercing attention to the golden triangle of her sex. He took his
leisure, touching, exploring, savoring the honey taste of woman and soap, and leaving her drenched. And still she gave nothing to him. She remained as still as he had commanded her to be.

He crawled over her. Her eyes were open and glazed over, and her fingers were knotted into the sheets. She tried too hard to deny him! He swore in silence and caught her knees, then brought them high over his shoulders. He swept into her with a single stroke, and she encapsulated him easily with the sleek, sweet feel of honey. He placed his hands on her shoulders and thrust farther, and she tossed her head to the side. He drove harder into her. She cried out once, and then she was silent. He gritted his teeth, and the storm of his passion swept over him. The explosion of it was violent, and he fell against her, gasping for breath. She curled quickly away from him.

Furious, he caught her shoulder and swirled her back around. “Why? Why, damn you, must you fight me?”

“I did not fight you!” she cried.

“Nay, lady,” he said scornfully, “you did not claw or beat me, or try to run, but you fight what you feel yourself. You do not give yourself to me; you deny me every step of the way.”

She was trembling. She wanted to escape him. He was so achingly familiar with the beautiful naked length of her now that he could not bear it. He held her hard and fast. “Why?”

“Because I feel nothing!”

“You are a liar!”

“You take what you want; that is all there is!”

He let out a furious oath and moved away from her, stepped into the now-cold bath, and loved it. He washed with a vengeance, aware that she lay immobile on the bed, afraid to move. When he finished, he grabbed a towel and dried himself harshly.

He ignored her while he dressed. His tastes were simple that day, dark breeches and a white shirt and a leather jerkin and his high black riding boots. While he
tugged them on, he spoke to her coldly, not glancing her way.

“I am sorry to leave you so, my dear, on the first day of our wedded bliss, but I’m certain that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. I have to see a man about the supplies for the ship.”

He stood. She was on the bed, in a cocoon of covers. She was, he thought, a whore who had married him with no pretense for his money. Well, it was a bargain well met. A bargain crafted in hell. He had married her for her youth and her health and her strength.

And her beauty. Even now, even in his raw anger, he saw that beauty. Her golden hair was completely tangled, and a tempest about her. She was swathed in the covers, but her shoulders were sloping and bare, and the rise of the sheets barely covered the full slopes of her breasts. She looked very young then, and lost and alone and vulnerable. He almost wanted to offer her some assurance.

Vulnerable! he thought with a snort. She was as vulnerable as one of the sharp-toothed barracuda that lurked in the warm southern waters off the American coast. She was hard, as hard as stone. She didn’t even play at gratitude.

He did come by her, and run his fingers over the top of her hair. “Take heart, madame. Two weeks is not such a terribly long time. Then you shall not see me for a minimum of four months.” He walked on by her, heading for the door.

“Four months!” she said in surprise. “But I thought it took three months to cross the ocean? And three months to come back again. And surely you intend to spend time there—”

“More time than I had thought at first,” he told her. He watched her, curious to her reaction. “Much more time. That is why I have decided that you must sail, too, as soon as possible.”

“What?” She gasped. She must have been truly stunned, taken completely by surprise, for she forgot her nudity and leapt from the bed, running after him. She
seemed small as she grabbed his hand. But then, he was booted and clad, and she was like a golden Eve, naked, with her hair tumbling down about her.

He smiled wickedly; he could not help himself. “Aye, lady. My pinnace,
Sweet Eden
, will leave the London dock on the twentieth of July. You will be upon it with whatever supplies and servants you shall require. My love, you will follow me to the New World.”

“No!” She cried with horror.

He tapped her chin closed for her. “Yes, my love.”

She shook her head violently. “No! I will not leave England! I will not come to that savage land full of Indians and insects! You have said yourself that it is dangerous. That Spanish pirates roam the seas! That there may be tempests at sea—”

“You will come, madame. And you will come when I command, for you are my wife.”

“No—”

“And you will come when I command, milady, because if you don’t, then I shall come back for you. And if you force me to do such a thing, then I swear, heaven will need to help you, for you cannot imagine what violent paths my wrath may take, and what tempest it is that you should truly fear.”

His smile deepened; he shook himself free of her touch and exited the room, slamming the door sharply behind him.

IX
   

T
en days later, at her first chance to entertain in grand style, Jassy still turned pale at the very mention of the word
Virginia
.

Robert and Lenore and Henry and Jane and the Duke of Carlyle and, of course, Elizabeth came for their first visit. Jassy should have found it her greatest triumph, for she, an illegitimate child of the streets, had come to reign in grandeur on an estate far grander than her brother’s. She was dressed in the finest fabric, in the newest style, and she entertained with the Venetian crystal, the Dutch plates, and the English sterling flatware, in the room where the walls were covered in silk. She had everything that she had coveted within her hands.

And the man she had married was telling her that she should leave it all behind and follow him to the savage wilds of a new country inhabited by wild men.

The day had not been without its triumphs. Her father-in-law the duke had greeted her with warmth and pleasure, telling her that she graced his son’s fine house. Jane had laughed; Henry had muttered that there was, after all, much of their father within her. Elizabeth had whisked her into a corner where she had giggled delightedly. “Oh, Jassy! Remember the day when we came here
and it was all pretense? And now it is real. Oh, truly, you are the grand lady!”

Not for long, she thought, but she refrained from speaking, for if this was to be her one shining moment, she wanted to cling to it. “Come, Elizabeth. What will you have? some wine?”

“Oh, yes, please! Wine will be grand.”

Conversation was casual as they gathered in the blue room, much of it regarding Lenore’s coming nuptials. Jassy often felt Robert Maxwell looking her way. Once she caught him doing so, and he raised his glass to her. She flushed and quickly looked away, but then, when he found her alone for a moment, she felt a bitter pleasure in his company. He caught her hands and kissed them both, and his admiration was unmistakable. “I have never seen you so beautiful. Marriage becomes you. Or
something
becomes you. You are radiant. I should have swept you away when I had the chance.”

Yes! she wanted to cry. You should have done so!

She remained silent, but she felt her heart pound. A new excitement filled her, and the day was fun once again. She could forget that she had married a dark, demanding man who gave no quarter, ever, and even now watched her from his stance at the mantel. He rested an elbow upon the mantel, but lifted his brandy snifter to her sarcastically as he caught her eye. Her smile and enthusiasm faded, and she quickly turned away. Still, she felt his eyes upon her.

Their days of newlywed “bliss” had been fraught with tension. Most of the day Jamie was gone, and at night Jassy went up to the room alone. She dressed in the plainest gowns, and feigned sleep the moment she heard his footsteps near their door. And every night he laughed at her attempts to avoid him, and it mattered little what she had chosen to wear, for she did not wear it for long.

She did not fight him, ever. She willed herself to lie still, and she realized that it was herself she had come to fight. He was not cruel to her, nor was he brutal, though she knew that he would have brooked no resistance from her. Every night and each time he touched her, she grew
more sensitive to him. Sometimes she ached for his hand before it came to her flesh, and she despised herself for the weakness. She bit into her lip when she would cry out at some sudden sensation, and she forced herself to remain still and impassive. She knew that he watched her, and she knew that he was vastly disappointed in her. She had to resist him. There was so little that was hers, and hers alone, to give.