The Horsemaster's Daughter (58 page)

L
ong after the company had gone home or found their way to one of the guest rooms, Hunter stayed awake. He had drunk more whiskey than a sailor on shore leave, but its effects disappointed him. Tonight, he felt everything. He felt every poke and prod and nuance of emotion. He felt things he had been numbing himself against for years.

Unable to contemplate sleeping, he went out to the barn. Every stall was occupied with racehorses. Things were as they should be. For once, he could breathe a sigh of relief about his state of affairs. He wasn’t bankrupt, his children were learning to embrace life again. He could take his choice of women to be his wife and stepmother to Belinda and Blue.

He stood poised on the brink of success. At last, everything was as he wanted it.

Except that nothing felt right. And he knew exactly why—Eliza Flyte.

She had left the party without even telling him. She had just slipped away.

He stood in the broad corridor that ran down the length of the stables, listening to the gentle nickering of the horses, and thought about Eliza. It was all he did these days, or so it seemed.

Finn put his head out of the box and nipped sleepily at Hunter’s sleeve. Idly Hunter fitted his shoulder under the stallion’s muzzle and scratched the smooth chestnut cheek. Finn responded with a contented rumble low in his throat. When Hunter had first seen this horse, the idea of anyone actually being able to touch—not to mention ride—him was unthinkable. Now he was a champion, the star of the hour, and probably the most valuable horse in Virginia.

The stallion nodded his great head and Hunter stepped away, holding him at arm’s length. The velvety lips rolled back playfully, going for his ears and hair. The horse’s grassy breath blew hot in his face. In spite of himself, Hunter laughed softly.

“Kissing on the mouth,” said a thoughtful voice from the doorway. “Now that’s something my father never tried with his horses.”

With a startled snort, the stallion swung his head toward Eliza. The movement made Hunter stumble back, slumping atop a bale of hay. Moonlight cast her in shades of blue as she stepped inside the barn.

“What are you doing up?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s an hour ’til dawn,” she corrected him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I,” he admitted.

She looked incredibly beautiful to him, a creature of moonlight and mist. A white cotton nightgown swirled like a cloud around her ankles. She wore her black hair loose, falling abundantly over her shoulders and down her back. Shadows hid her face, but he sensed that her attention was riveted on him.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked her.

“Everything has been happening so fast. It’s all so new and exciting,” she said. “When I was standing at the banquet table at the party tonight, I was at a loss. There was too much there, Hunter. Too much to sample. I simply couldn’t make up my mind where to begin. I feel the same way about everything else these days.”

He chuckled, intrigued by her honesty and lack of pretense. “Really?”

“Really. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

He hesitated, wondering if he should lie to her. No, he thought. She wasn’t easy to lie to. And so he said flatly, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

She stiffened, suspicion prickling over her almost visibly. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. Everyone went to bed, and I should have gone as well, and slept soundly on the knowledge that Albion is about to enter a period of prosperity. Instead, I found myself thinking of you.”

She turned away and went to the doorway, speaking over her shoulder. “We should change the subject.”

“Fine.” He sat forward on the hay bale. “Did you enjoy the party?” he inquired.

She hesitated, then said, “It was completely amazing.” She twirled around, hugging herself, and the nightgown belled out around her. “I felt like Cinderella going to the ball.” She stopped spinning to face him.

“There will probably be plenty more dances now.”

“Not for me there won’t be.”

A chill stole over him despite the balmy warmth of the night. “What do you mean? Didn’t you like it? Didn’t you have a good time?”

“I liked it, I danced with plenty of charming gentlemen, I had a good time, and if I’m ever tempted to go to a ball again, you have my permission to shoot me.”

He planted his elbows on his knees. “I don’t understand you.” He was only half joking.

She came toward him, moving like a wraith through a stream of blue moonlight, and stood in the center aisle of the barn. “I wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world. I saw so much, learned so much.” She ducked her head. He could hear her drawing in a long slow breath like a swimmer before diving into deep, cold water.

“One of the things I learned was that this isn’t my world.”

Panic knocked at his chest. He wanted her here. He
needed
her here. “Give it time, Eliza—”

“It can never be my world. I feel the same way when I study a herd of horses. I’m the outsider, looking in. I can understand what’s going on, and can even take part if I’m careful and I watch my behavior, but I’ll never think and feel as they do. I’ll never be one of them.” She lifted her head so that the light traced the clean line of her profile. “You and I belong to different species.”

“Come here.” He held out both hands to her.

She hugged herself protectively. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…well, that’s one thing I’ve learned from being here in your world. It’s not proper. A woman doesn’t just go around wantonly making love to men.”

“Who said I expected you to make love to me? Wantonly?” He stood up, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing he couldn’t help himself. “Dance with me, Eliza. There’s no harm in dancing with me.”

Before she could answer, he caught her in his arms, humming the first few bars of a waltz. She gasped in surprise, but instead of pulling away she let him hold her, grasped his hand and rested her other hand on his upper arm. They danced in the barn, with cedar shavings under their feet and the moonlight streaming down through the central skylight. Each detail of the moment stood out in sharp relief—the sound of her breathing and the warm smell of the horses, the clarity of her eyes and the way the light fell over her hair, the feel of her small, hardworking hand in his.

“You’ve been drinking whiskey,” she whispered.

He stopped humming but kept dancing. “I always drink whiskey.”

“More than usual tonight, I think.”

“You’re probably right. Tonight…I needed to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“How much—” He paused and stopped dancing to weave his hand up into her thick black hair. “How much I want you,” he finished just before lowering his head and settling his mouth over hers.

A better man would have stopped. A better man would have backed away, warned her to go to her room and lock the door. A better man would have done everything in his power to keep from hurting her.

But Hunter knew himself all too well. There wasn’t much good in him, and here was the proof. He had ruined this girl by taking her innocence, and then, instead of trying to make amends by helping her get on with her life, pointing her in the direction of her dreams, perhaps arranging a proper marriage with the right sort of man, he did nothing but follow the dictates of his body and his heart.

And she made it so easy for him, this strange, fey girl who had never heard music until tonight. She fell into his kiss, curled up into his embrace and convinced him, with the softest of moans and a helpless, whispered endearment, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Without breaking the kiss, he swept her up into his arms and took her into the barn office. Shadows haunted the tall cases of breeder journals and the long desk strewn with notes. With a sweep of his arm he cleared the desk, not caring when important papers swished to the floor and a pewter ink jar fell with a clatter. He laid her down on the old oak desk that had been his father’s, and even through the fog of his desire he saw a dark irony in the situation. This desk, where his father had made and lost a fortune in tobacco, this desk where his father had signed the papers selling people Hunter loved to the slave traders, was about to know the heat of an illicit passion.

Stop me,
he thought, pressing Eliza back on the cleared surface.
Stop me.

She placed her palms flat against his chest, under his shirt, her touch lingering over his heart. He knew then that she wasn’t about to stop him.

He tried one last time, forcing out the words. “This shouldn’t be happening. Not here, not like this.”

“Then where?” she whispered, her lips already full and slick from kissing. “And how?”

“You are so beautiful,” he said. “You should be taken on a bed of softest down, with coverlets of silk and flowers all around.”

She traced her finger down the front of him and lower, finding the shape of him through his breeches. “Should such things matter to me?”

“Do they?”

“I don’t think so.” Dropping back her head, she bared her creamy throat to him. He kissed her there, where a powerful pulse matched the rhythm of his own desire. “No. Nothing matters but you,” she whispered.

He tugged the ribbon at the neckline of her gown and drew the garment off her, baring her entirely to the moonlight. Reclining on the long desk, she resembled a pagan offering, a beauty so precious and rare that only the gods were fit to receive her. Her body held the fresh promise of an unopened bud. He was the only man ever to see the pearlescent gleam of the moonlight on her breasts. The only one to taste the fullness of her lips. Like the time on the island, he was going to use her, destroy her, and he didn’t even care. Long ago, he had lost himself, lost who he was, lost his direction in life.

For now he had but one purpose, and that was to do justice to the innocent gift of her trust and her passion. She made it easy, for she offered no protest. She watched him peel off his shirt and bend over her, and when he kissed her breasts, she gasped with pleasure and lifted herself toward him. She tasted of the secret springs of womanhood, and she did not resist anything, not his hungriest kisses, not his boldest caresses, not his most intimate touch.

She drew from him a long, patient eroticism he never knew he possessed. He held his own desires at bay, compelled to seek her pleasure before his own. He kissed her in all the most sensitive places of her body, and she responded with an abandon that made his heart soar. He felt every ripple, every quiver, every held-back disbelieving breath. This was so new to him,
she
was so new to him.

She objected to nothing and encouraged everything. With both hands she undid the side buttons of his breeches and took them off, sighing with pleasure at the sight of him. Her touch was as frank and bold as her stare. No one had ever trained her to be modest or coy. No schoolgirl notions inhibited her responses to him. Her touch was fire, everywhere, branding him, lifting him to heights he had never imagined.

He stood at the end of the desk and slid her toward him, leaning forward to gently impale her. They joined in a slow, lingering bond that made the world catch fire. The rich heat of loving her enveloped him, and for the first time in his life, physical pleasure became an emotion he could actually feel in his soul. She was special, this woman he had dragged kicking and screaming into his world. Every moment with her was a new discovery.

The rhythm of his strokes matched the rhythm of her shallow breaths, and he kept his eyes open, watching her. He covered her hands with his and held her pinned down on the desk, a helpless victim of the pleasure he could see rippling over her in waves.

His name burst from her, and her spasms completely robbed him of control. He flung himself into the abyss with her, letting the pleasure roar through him, collapsing on her as he claimed her mouth with his, imprisoned her hands in his and filled her with all that he was.

Long moments stretched out, and he knew he should move, but he couldn’t. Never had he felt such emotion in making love, and it was all due to Eliza. He had done nothing special, nothing but admit the truth about his desire for her. He had always enjoyed sex and taken pleasure in it, but until Eliza he had never thought of it as a form of worship.

Still joined, they fit together and breathed as one, mouth to mouth, breast to chest. He couldn’t believe he was still kissing her. He felt as if they had survived some disaster together, a shipwreck or hurricane, and they were the only survivors on earth.

With a groan, he pulled his mouth from hers and tried to rise.

She caught him fast against her. “Don’t go.”

He laughed, letting her feel the rumble of his throat against her smooth shoulder. “Oh, love. Do you think I want to?”

“Then stay. Just for a few moments longer.”

“You’re comfortable like this?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “You’ve put ideas into my head.”

“What sort of ideas?”

“You’ve got me thinking about that bed of swansdown and the silk coverlets.”

“Ah, honey,” he said, wishing the moment would go on, wishing he wasn’t drunk so he’d remember every detail. “I’d make you a bed of clouds if I could.” Inch by inch, he took himself away, kissing each part of her goodbye as he left—face, shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs. He found her rumpled nightgown on the floor and handed it to her. Then he pulled on his breeches and propped himself on the side of the desk.

“It’s getting light,” he observed, nodding at the unglazed window. A silvery thread appeared on the horizon, very low, just touching the waterline. A rooster crowed, a piercing lonely sound in the misty dark before dawn.

“We’ve got a busy day ahead.” Reluctantly he pulled her heavy hair out of the neckline of her gown. “And,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her, “plans to make.”

“Plans?”

He laughed quietly and kissed her again. “Something about a bed of softest down—”

“Hunter.” She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed back, solemnly studying his face.