Tender the Storm (45 page)

He settled himself between her damp thighs. "Oh yes," he breathed into her mouth. "This is how I've dreamed it would be between us. Welcome me into your body, Zoë. Show me how much you want me."

He smoothed her fingers around the powerful shaft of his virility. He sensed her hesitation and kissed her with rising hunger, melting the instinctive remnants of feminine resistance. Obediently, she guided him to the entrance to her body.

"Zoë," he groaned, "ah, Zoë," and he drove into her.

He gazed down at her face, at the languorous half-closed lids, the lips swollen with the force of his kisses. "Zoë!" he said again, and there was awe in that one word. He knew that he would never get enough of this woman.

Drawing on reserves of control he had not known he possessed, he moved above her, drawing the response he wanted, holding himself in check till he could feel the pleasure rise in her. "Yes," he said,
encouraging her, "yes." Never in his life had he ever wanted anything as mush as this —that Zoë should find her woman's pleasure in his arms.

When he knew that she was soaring on the crest, he relinquished his control. His movements became rougher, almost violent. In husky, sensual whispers, he spurred her to greater passion. The stifled cries of pleasure she made deep in her throat made him wild for her. Belatedly, he tried to restrain his ardor, fearing he might frighten her. It was too late. They came together in a storm of emotion, her surprised cry of ecstasy driving him over the edge. Frenzied, in the throes of rampaging passion of the sort he had never before experienced, Rolfe slipped his hands under Zoë's hips, lifting her to him, thrusting violently into her again and again, groaning her name as his seed spilled into her, shuddering uncontrollably with the force of his release.

Long moments later, he raised himself slightly to allow her to draw breath. His own breathing was still far from normal. He could scarcely bring himself to look into her eyes. He knew that he must have frightened her half to death. The words of apology came out haltingly.

Zoë stirred beneath him. She smiled dreamily. "That was . . . nice," she said, and giggled at the inadequacy of her words. Her hand languidly trailed from his cheek to his throat, then fell away.

"Nice?" said Rolfe, and savored the sudden release of guilt. She wasn't shocked by the ferocity of his ardor. He kissed the tip of her nose. "Only nice?" he asked playfully.

She sighed, a sound of repletion that Rolfe found
eminently satisfying. "It was . . . very nice," she elaborated.

She was love-sated and drowsy. Rolfe wasn't. He kissed her again, darting his tongue between her lips in an age-old masculine question. Her drooping eyes widened. At least he had her attention. He felt himself growing hard inside her, and he rotated his hips, inviting her to reciprocate. Her eyes grew huge in her face.

A wicked grin spread slowly over his handsome face as he felt the shudder that began deep in her womb. He moved again, feeding the small flame of her desire. "Oh yes, love, yes. And don't you dare turn shy on me." He tipped back her drooping chin. "You're a deeply passionate woman. And I'm never going to let you forget it."

Was she deeply passionate? Zoë asked herself. And her heart answered. She was deep in love, as deep in love with him as ever she had been. Nothing had changed and yet, everything had changed. She was no longer the love-struck girl. She had learned how to conceal what she was feeling. Rolfe had said not one word of love to her. And she would never again embarrass herself by betraying the state of her emotions.

"Zoë, what is it?"

She smiled to conceal the sudden constriction in her chest. "Prove to me that I'm a deeply passionate woman," she teased.

He did. But the word
love
was never mentioned between them.

By degrees, she came to herself. She stretched languidly, absorbing the faint sounds and scents in the house. She was aware that it was late. The sun spilled to every corner of her chamber. And then she remembered everything.

Abruptly, Zoë sat up in bed. Only then did she realize that she was naked. She hauled the bedclothes up to her chin.

He was at the window, gazing out towards the river. She recognized the robe he was wearing.

"How did you get hold of my father's dressing gown?"

Over his shoulder Rolfe grinned wolfishly. "Scarcely the first words I expected to hear from your lips after what we shared last night."

As he approached the bed, Zoë made an effort to compose
herself
. This kind of scene must be a commonplace for her former husband. His sophisticated women would know how to conduct an
affaire.
She had only instinct to guide her.

She had to fight back the impulse to throw herself into his arms. To confess that she loved him would gratify his vanity, or perhaps amuse him, or embarrass him. He would patronize her as he had always done in the past. She could not bear it. Last night had been something she would treasure for the rest of
her life. She had no doubt that to a gentleman of Rolfe's experiences last night would be soon forgotten. Pride dictated only one course.

Smiling easily, she said, "You are wearing my father's dressing gown."

"Salome was good enough to fetch it for me." He captured one of her hands. "You're trembling," he observed.

"I'm cold. Would you mind?" and she gestured to her own robe which lay on the back of a chair.

For the moment, he ignored her request as his eyes studied her face. "Do you mind that I'm wearing your father's dressing gown?" he asked seriously, and then, with a wicked grin, 'You have only to say so, and I shall remove it." He loved the way color stole across her cheekbones.

"I'm surprised Salome was so obliging, 'tis all."

"She told me that you had kept all your parents garments."

"I . . . there has not been the time to go through them and decide to whom they should go."

"I think I understand. When my brother died, it was the same for me."

"Was it?" Her tone was dubious.

"Somehow I felt that by keeping his things about me, I could sense Edward's presence."

"But —but that's it exactly!" said Zoë. "Do you know
,
my mother's fragrance still clings to her clothes? I just can't bear to part with them." Suddenly wary of the intimacy which these confidences were creating, in an altered tone, she repeated her request for her robe. This was duly handed to her. It came to her belatedly, that to don the robe necessitated her appearing before Rolfe in all her nakedness.

His eyes were sparkling when she chanced a quick glance up at him. Ignoring that sapient look Zoë said, "There was no need for you to approach Salome. You should have wakened me."

In point of fact, it was Salome who had approached Rolfe. Dawn was just beginning to creep into the room when he had heard the scratching at the door. Reluctantly untangling himself from Zoë, he had snatched up the coverlet to conceal his nakedness.

When he unlocked the door, he found Salome, candle in hand, in the corridor, proffering the dressing gown. A moment later, with the robe knotted securely around him, he had followed her into a room farther down the hall.

It was evident that, in spite of believing him to be her young mistress's fate, Salome was coming to have second thoughts about Rolfe. He had done everything in his power to reassure her, swearing that he meant to marry the girl just as soon as circumstances permitted.

"Why not marry her now?" Salome had wanted to know.

"Because she won't have me."

Salome thought for a moment. "You know her from before, don't you?"

"Yes," said Rolfe, and would commit
himself
to saying no more on that subject.

He could see that Salome was far from satisfied with his reticence. She subjected him to a very hard scrutiny before producing a crucifix on which she made him swear that he would marry Zoë. But when he had told Zoë's old nurse the steps he meant to follow to ensure Zoë capitulation, he'd had a fight on his hands. Without giving everything away, he had tried to impress upon the virago that without his protection her young charge stood to lose more than her virtue. If it had come to the point, Rolfe would have had Housard remove Salome without batting an eye. He decided that he would follow that course only as a last resort. Zoë was fond of her maid, and Salome was devoted to Zoë.

Eyeing him distrustfully, Salome had stalked to a dresser. In the top drawer, she found what she was looking for.
Tarot cards.
Rolfe had watched interestedly as Salome set out the cards, face down, on a small table. Some few minutes later, the ritual was complete. She gazed with rapt attention at the card in her hand.

"What is it?" asked Rolfe.

She held out the card to him. It was the knight with the wand. He had won. And now it was time to tell Zoë of the change in her circumstances.

"Put on your robe," he said.

Zoë licked her lips. "I should like some privacy," she countered.

He stifled that first pang of conscience. "There's no necessity to be shy with me. We were husband and wife; once. Now I am your protector and you are my mistress."

Unconsciously, Zoë began to shred the soft folds of the robe between her fingers. His words seared her and she was furious with herself for allowing this man the power to hurt her still. Grinding her teeth together, she threw back the covers and flounced to her feet.

"I am no man's mistress," she denied passionately and made to slip on her robe.

Rolfe prevented her completing the movement. Wide-eyed, she stared at him. A pulse began to beat at her throat. His hands trailed possessively, from the line of her jaw to the thrust of her breasts and lower, but his eyes, gray as the English Channel, held her inexorably. "You accepted my protection last night," he told her. "You gave me rights that I refuse to relinquish."

Wordlessly she shook her head.

"No harm will come to you as long as it is known that you have accepted my
carte-blanche."

In quick succession, her face betrayed the emotions of shame and outrage. Rolfe hardened his heart, reminding himself that he was doing it for her own good. "From this moment on, any insult to you is an insult to me. I take care of what belongs to me. A woman needs a man to protect her and
— "