Tender the Storm (44 page)

He wasn't making sense. Nothing was making sense. And she was on the verge of hysteria. A sudden suspicion assailed her. She rounded on him. "What have you done with my servants?" Her voice rose querulously.

Calmly, coolly, he began to remove his shoes and stockings. "I sent them to bed. They are not going to rescue you, if that's what you were hoping."

The room was suddenly as hot as a
bakehouse
. Zoë closed her eyes tightly.

For a moment, a very fleeting moment, he almost felt sorry for her. He ruthlessly crushed what he regarded as a fatal weakness. It was a proven fact that this woman could draw rings around him without half trying. If he didn't watch his step, she would seduce him from his purpose. One look, one word, and he
was
putty in her hands. He always had been, from the moment she had pushed into his life.

She was his wife. The thought was grimly satisfying. Her divorce might mean something in Paris. In London, it was worthless. And once he had her safely on English soil, he
would . . .
oh
God,
he did not know what he would do. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to share his future with her.

For the first time in his life, he wanted a real home. He wanted children. And he knew that Zoë was the heart of this new ambition that had taken hold of him. He wanted Zoë as he had never wanted anything. How ironic, he thought, that having adroitly evaded the lures and snares of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies of the
ton
for any number of years, he should fall victim to a young girl who was barely out of the schoolroom.

She confused him. She did not want him for her husband. But he would wager his life that she was not indifferent to him. He did not know what he should believe about her. That she might be involved in intrigue
mattered
not one jot. He was less sanguine when he considered that his little Zoë might possibly have taken other lovers since arriving in Paris.
He
tried to put the unpalatable thought from him. There would be time and enough to sort through all her iniquities when he had extricated her from her present coil and had her under his own roof.

In the meantime, it was imperative that he have some ordering of her life. She had made it abundantly
clear,
however, that she would accept no authority but her own. He would not accept that. She was his. In their present circumstances, he knew of only one way to press his claims upon her. He was doing it for
her own
good.

Rising, he said, very gently and quietly, "I'll act as your lady's maid if you wish."

Her eyes flew open. "My servants will kill you," she breathed hoarsely.

"I think not. I'm in your cards
remember
?
The knight with the wand?"
He smiled indulgently. "Salome thinks I'm your fate. She won't meddle."

"Oh God!"
Zoë made a bolt for the door.

Rolfe was on her in an instant, bearing her back across the bed, pinning her down with his weight. "Easy, easy," he soothed as she began to buck under him.

She whimpered as he lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers. "I don't want this," she said weakly, and tried to pull away.

He assessed her expression carefully. Smiling, he said, "No. I can see that you don't. But I know how to change that 'no' to a 'yes'."

She believed him. Where Rolfe was concerned, she had no willpower. Once, she had adored him with a child's blind devotion. And though she was wiser now, disillusioned, older than her years, he still had the power to move her. And she wished with all her heart that she was immune to him.

He saw everything that he wanted to see in her eyes. She was giving into him, softening beneath him. Something fierce, that same primitive emotion he had experienced when he had found her on the staircase with Varlet, surged through him. The woman was his, the pride of all his possessions. And he would take whatever steps were necessary to hold what was his.

There was a hard glitter in his eyes as he gazed down at her. The look chilled Zoë to the bone. And then the look was gone.

"No," he said, lowering his head to press little kisses across her cheeks and along the line of her jaw. "Don't look at me like that. Give into me. Oh God, kitten, give into me. I've waited forever for this. Don't turn me away now."

It was sheer insanity to give into him. She should have more pride, more sense. But when his kisses were so sweetly imploring, the remnants of her resistance melted like snow on a summer day.

A soft moan caught in her throat as he turned her face up to his. His mouth hovered over hers. Zoë trembled in anticipation. She closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss. When it did not come, her eyelashes lifted slowly and she stared into eyes as blue as a Mediterranean sky.

He seemed to be hesitating, as if he were not quite sure of her. Smiling, Zoë brought her head up from the pillow and touched her open lips to his in an age-old gesture of feminine capitulation.

A spark leapt between them. Those sweetly imploring kisses turned into something quite different. He could not undress her fast enough.

"This time it's going to be different," he told her, and he cast around in his mind for a way to explain what he was feeling.

"Different?" said Zoë. She was enthralled with the sight, smell, and taste of him. Her fingers splayed out, savoring those powerful masculine shoulders, muscles tensed, straining, rigidly held in check to protect her fragility. She shivered, remembering that there was always a cost when a woman gave herself to a man. Hadn't Salome told her so? The wages of being female were pain and tribulation. She touched her fingers to the pulse beating wildly at his throat. His virility was almost overpowering. She cherished it, secure in the knowledge that his strength was her shield. If there was a price for this one night of love, she decided that she was willing to pay it.

She was naked. And Rolfe could not believe how
beautiful she was. "Zoë," he said harshly, and his hands covered her breasts. "How could I have been deceived into thinking you were a schoolgirl? You're so incredibly . . . female. Your skin is like silk.
Lovely . . . lovely . . . Zoë."

His hands made a leisurely sweep, following the path of his eyes. Calmly possessive, he claimed every inch of her in a way he had never before claimed any woman. It came to him, then, that this act of love was no empty ritual, not merely the taking and giving of sensual pleasure. This joining was . . . significant.

His eyes glittering, he told her, "I'm going to love you so thoroughly that you'll forget every lover you've ever had but me."

Other lovers?
Zoë tried to suppress a smile and failed.

"Damn you!" he said savagely. "Damn you, Zoë!"

His mouth covered hers in
a ferocity
of passion. Zoë surrendered everything to him, trusting him implicitly. And then began the assault on her senses.

It wasn't only passion that moved him. He'd felt passion for other women —dozens of them. But here was an unfamiliar urgency, an insatiable need to impress upon her that he, and only he, was her masculine complement, her true mate. He would tolerate no others encroaching on his private preserves. Disjointed sentences spilled from his lips. She was his. He would protect her with his dying breath from everything and everyone but himself. And from him she needed no protection. She was his own true lady, the prize he cherished above all
others.

Zoë scarcely heard the torrent of words. She was drowning in sensations she had never before experienced. Her body felt heavy, engorged,
too
sensitive for comfort. She was shivering with pleasure, on the brink of something she could not understand. She was beyond denying him anything. His mouth and hands moved over her, teasing, tasting,
learning
the intimate secrets of her femininity. She responded with an abandon she would not have believed possible.

When he pulled back to strip away his clothes, Zoë was shaking with the strength of her desire for him. But when he turned to face her, and her eyes moved over his powerful masculine physique, finally coming to rest on the vigorous shaft of his sex, desire gradually faded. He crouched over her, his face taut with passion.

Zoë inched away. "Please,
Rolfe . . .
no."

He went perfectly still. His voice was harsh when he said, "I won't let you change your mind." He read the fear in her eyes, and he groaned. "Don't be afraid of me, kitten." He buried his mouth against her throat, "Don't stop me,
love
. Please don't try to stop me. It's gone too far. I can't stop. Don't you see? Oh God, you are so beautiful, so perfectly made. And you belong to me."

He was seducing her with words. And it seemed that nothing had changed. She could never refuse Rolfe anything. He positioned her beneath him and Zoë tensed for the coming agony.

And suddenly, without having to be told, Rolfe knew why she had turned skittish. He braced him
self on his arms and regarded her with a lazy grin. "I won't hurt you this time," he told her softly.

"No?" Her look was disbelieving.

He felt like laughing. In spite of the questionable morals of Zoë's intimates, and in spite of finding her in Madame Montansier's notorious establishment, his little wife was as pure as the driven snow. The amusement left him, and he felt suddenly humbled and more fortunate than he deserved to be.

His expression grave, he said, "I hurt you the first time. I'm sorry. I should have taken more care with you."

"It wasn't your fault. You thought I was —
" Horrified
, Zoë stared up at him. The last thing she wanted was to bring another woman's name into the conversation.

Rolfe tenderly combed his fingers through her dark ringlets. He loved the way the strands of her hair curled lovingly round his fingers. He chose his words with care. "I'm not sure that I can explain what happened that night. I awakened from a deep sleep. I found you in my bed. In my own mind, it was you I was making love to, Zoë, no one else. But afterwards, it occurred to me that it could not possibly be you. For one thing, you'd never come to my bed before. And for another, I thought you were still at the Abbey. I was confused. But I wanted it to be you. I wish you would believe me."

It shouldn't matter to her. But it did. He'd had women, lots of women, before and since. He was a rake of the first magnitude. But at least when he had made love to her he hadn't been wishing that
she was one of those other women. Her heart swelled with happiness.

She wound her arms around his neck. "Love me, Rolfe," she said, "please love me."

A soft, unintelligible murmur broke from him. He held her face between his hands. Trembling with passion he kissed her slowly and deeply. He became less controlled, and his lips moved over her urgently, scorching her like flame wherever they touched. Her whole body seemed to swell with desire for him. She knew that she was moaning, panting,
inviting
every intimacy by offering herself like a wanton. She had to bite back the words of love.