To Have and to Hold (17 page)

She looked away, flushing.

He dropped the ironic tone. "Take your hands away," he said almost kindly. "I'll tie you if I have to, but I'd much rather not. Not just now."

You bastard,
she thought. But she didn't say it, and after a few hot, furious seconds, she dragged her hands down to her sides.

"That's it. Now don't move—as I was saying." He reached for the jar without looking away from her; he seemed to be spellbound. "You have very lovely breasts, Mrs. Wade. Very, very beautiful."

"What are you going to do?"

"Shhh." He was dipping his fingers in the jar, coating them with the pungent salve; his eyes looked dreamy, but his mouth was hard. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he mocked her softly.

She honestly didn't know for sure until he brought his slippery fingers to her nipple and began to spread the unguent over it. She gasped—jumped—almost sat up straight in the bed. But something kept her where she was.

"Good," he murmured. "Lie still for me. Don't move again."

Panic flickered along every nerve ending. But she could not lock him out the way she'd learned at the end to lock Randolph out—a trick of the mind, a last-ditch-gambit of the truly desperate that involved not breathing and pulling down a mental curtain between herself and everything around her. She tried it now, and it worked perfectly until the first outlaw spark of sensation zigzagged past the mind-barrier, and she realized Sebastian wasn't hurting her. He wasn't hurting her.

The salve liquified the moment her skin warmed
it,
and the indescribable fragrance grew so potent and heady she felt dizzy. He went back to the jar for more and, as he had before, he brought it to his nostrils and inhaled. "Eucalyptus," he said in a low voice, deceptively casual; she could see a vein in his throat pulsing strongly, quickly. "And laurel, and lemon. In sandalwood oil, I think. Do you like it?" He brought his fingers to the same breast again and smoothed the ointment around the aureole of her nipple in maddening circles, apparently fascinated by the changes she could feel in her treacherous bosom, and now fascinated by her face, which she wanted to bury in the pillow, out of his sight.

When he straightened, she entertained, extremely briefly, the foolish hope that he was through with her. Of course he wasn't. He slicked his hand into the jar again, and this time he took a taste of the ointment on his tongue. The wicked smile flashed. "I like it," he announced, and began to soothe her other breast with the same slow, careful, painstaking enjoyment. Her toes curled. She could not possibly like this. She hated sex, which was violent, brutal, and degrading. She could endure it, but she could not enjoy it. No matter, completely irrelevant, that some people claimed to take pleasure in it—she knew what she knew. And yet, when Sebastian leaned over her and put his mouth on her, put his lips on the nipple he'd warmed and stimulated with his hands and his devilish unguent, a stab of such exquisite pleasure shot through her that she groaned, and the longer he teased and tongued and bit, the more excruciating it became.

"Stop it," she cried out, and to her intense astonishment, he did.

He bent to her, blue eyes snapping like fires in a wind, his mouth shining wet, lips ruddy from suckling her. "Try not to be so frightened," he whispered, his own excitement visible, barely leashed. "Let yourself feel." While he stared unblinkingly into her eyes, his face a breath away, he trailed one long, slippery finger down to her belly, taking the silk sheet with it. Her body went rigid, tried to merge into the mattress. He covered her stomach with his hand and caressed her, kneaded the tense muscles to relax her. The gentle massage wouldn't stop.
Oh, do it, just do it,
she wanted to shout. But part of his plan was to make her insane before he debauched her, and he went on and on with his nerve-wracking fondling. When at last he pulled the sheet away, baring everything, she was . wound up tight; one more twist would break her.

But she didn't know what she could bear until she had to bear it. Sebastian moved down in the bed until they were thigh to thigh, taking his jar of ointment with him. Her legs were pressed together so tightly, the muscles were quivering. "You know what I want," he said quietly, and if she hadn't known, the direction of his gaze would have enlightened her. "We don't need to have another conversation about tying you, do we?"

She didn't move, except to twist her head on the pillow.

"I'll only add that, as much as I'd enjoy lashing your hands to the posts, I'd like tying your ankles even more." The blue of his eyes glittered like jewels. "I'd like tying them wide apart. Stretching your legs wide apart. Opening you." Her next breath was a rough hiccup—a ludicrous sound, but he didn't laugh at her. "Part your legs," he commanded softly. "Come, open them. Don't make me do it."

But she couldn't. And she wanted to. But she couldn't.

He sighed. He slid his hands down to her ankles and seized them, holding tight. She knew everything about helplessness and immobility, everything about sexual submission. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn't been done. Then why was this worse? Why was this painless seduction breaking her up, annihilating something deep, deep inside?

In a clear voice she said, "Don't do this to me."

He looked up, eyes alert, interested. Paused for so long, she thought he would stop now, stop everything. "What difference does it make? We've done this before. What does it matter now?"

She passed her tongue over her dry lips.
Because I might like it,
she thought frantically. "You know," she said aloud.

He weighed that, and finally acknowledged it with a nod. "Yes. I do." He dropped his head and contemplated his hands, still clasped around her ankles, then let his gaze travel upward. She held her breath, fingers clawing the sheet on either side of her hips. He looked into her eyes. And then he pulled her legs wide apart and crawled between them to keep them open.

She started to cry. She stared at the ceiling while tears trickled down her temples and into her hair. He had his knees pressing against hers, pressing them out, and she felt his breath on her abdomen, the cool swish of his hair on her thigh. Unhurried fingers parted her pubic hair, pulled her labia apart by the hairs, gently, and she felt his breath again, and then the quick flick of his tongue. She couldn't understand the words he was saying. He used one hand to hold her open and the other to smear the slippery cream on her, into her, deep inside, lavishing it, coating her with it, not stopping, on and on. She couldn't get her breath and she couldn't get away. She called out, "No," and "Stop," but he wouldn't stop. He said, "Look at me," and he had his fingers in her while he slathered the ointment on his own stiff sex. Stiff and thick, jutting, her worst enemy, she wanted to kill him—she wanted him inside her. She said, "Do it, then," and he lay over her, coming into her on a long, smooth glide, sailing right into her. He pulled her hands up and made her curl her fingers around the bed rails over her head, squeezing her fingers shut tight while he glided inside her, thick and sleek, stretching her, stroking her. She didn't know his face; he was lost, unrecognizable, and her fear of him wavered because if he lost control, he couldn't control her.

He drove her higher, pushed her against the rails, cold wood hard against her shoulders, driving, driving. Sweat glistened on his face and chest, his straining arms; sweat dripped from his damp hair and fell on her breasts. He kissed her, opening her mouth wide, thrusting into it with his tongue in rhythm with the steady plunging of his sex inside her. She knew what he wanted, knew he wouldn't stop until she gave it to him. She wanted it, too—but it was out of reach, impossible. She let him pull her legs around him, tight around his waist, and she moved her own body to his fevered rhythm.

"Let go," he panted against her neck, grazing his teeth across her throat. "Give in." He pushed his hand under her, dragged it down her back and between her buttocks. She felt his slick finger slide against the tight walls of her other opening, and she yelled out a curse and tried to squirm away. But he had her in a perfect position; there was no escape. His finger slid in easily, not far, but enough to madden her. She bucked again and again, jerking against him. He wouldn't stop, he wouldn't stop, and then a hoarse groan tore from his throat and he went still, clutching at her for an endless moment before his body convulsed. She held him while he poured into her, bearing his full weight and the violence of his driving release. He began to curse before it was over, and she didn't know or care if he was swearing at her or himself.

Relief that it was over warred with hurt and anger and a wrenching, bottomless dissatisfaction—a brand new legacy, and something else she could hate him for. She wriggled out from under his wet, spent, panting body and rolled away from him as far as she could go.

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She left him in the gray hour before dawn. He felt her silently rise and slip from the bed, thinking he was asleep. Heard the soft glide of cotton as she put on the gown and robe he'd taken from her hours ago and thrown over a chair. He lay on his stomach with his head turned toward the wall, and although they hadn't been touching, his skin felt cool in her absence and his body felt more than twice as alone. But he didn't move, even though he could see her in his mind's eye, watching him. He knew how her face looked, the way she was clutching her hands at her waist, maybe worrying at the tie of her cotton dressing gown. Twice before she'd tried to leave him, and both times he'd pulled her back down, murmuring to her that she wasn't to go, then taking his hands off her. He could feel her crystal-colored gaze on him now; his mind's-eye picture was clear and complete, but he had no idea what she was thinking. Not the slightest clue.

He didn't hear her slippered feet on the carpet; it wasn't until the door hinges rasped and the latch clicked that he knew she was gone. He lay motionless a little longer, trying to capture a last trace of her elusive scent. Not the eucalyptus smell, but the smell of Rachel. He watched his hand in the half-light, sweeping the sheet where she'd lain, halting to touch the cooling shadow of her heat. Regret was a bitter taste on the back of the tongue, a sick prodding in the belly. He closed his eyes. For the first time in the course of the long, unruly night, his body obeyed him.

He went to sleep.

10

Days passed. He caught glimpses of her going about her chores, exactly the same, no change, or none visible to the eye. At first he didn't send for her; her gliding, dark-garbed figure was an effective silent reproach, whether she intended it to be or not. He went about his own affairs not exactly as if nothing had happened, but almost. The only difference was that he was aware of her at all times, knew precisely where she was and what she was doing, with an unfailing accuracy that he resented.

One morning he sent for her. She came into his study promptly, carrying her ledger; her ring of keys, the noisy badge of her profession, rattled from a chain pinned to her waist. He looked up from his own accounts book, which he'd been pretending to read so he could keep her waiting, and saw that she was wearing a cap. An old-fashioned mobcap, white, voluminous, and indescribably ugly. She wore it to mock him, he hadn't a doubt. "Take that off and never let me see it on your head again," he said in a harsh voice. It was a shock to realize how angry he was.

"Yes, my lord." She removed the cap and stood with her naked head bowed, forearms crossed over the ledger at her breast. For all that it was a clever disguise, she looked nothing like the cowed prisoner behind the bar at the magistrates' hearing. Was it she who had changed, or his perception of her? Either way, her submissive bearing had been real once and now it was a fraud. Fine. Even better. Much more entertaining to persecute the strong than the weak.

But that amoral resolve rang rather hollow. Nothing had changed. He still didn't know what he wanted to do more, bedevil her or save her.

"Sit down, Mrs. Wade."

"Yes, my lord."

He smiled thinly. As far as forms address as subtle insults went, the score was roughly tied. He leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. It occurred to him that he should have arranged this meeting in the library; then he could have made her sit on the sofa, and she'd have to remember the last time she'd had occasion to sit on it—no, recline on it. He felt like reminding her of it now; but, of course, such a thing would be too crude. Anyway, it was he who needed the reminder, for he was finding it almost impossible to reconcile the small, sober, blank-faced woman in front of him with the one who had wept in his arms three nights ago, cursed him and enflamed him, squirmed under him, and finally suffered the full brunt of his passionate attentions with all the enthusiasm of a crucified saint.

"Why hasn't this bill been paid?" He tapped the end of his pen on a yellow slip of paper on his desk.

"My lord?" She got up uncertainly and took a few steps toward him. "What bill?"

"This one. For copper pots, twelve guineas' worth. Judelet says he knows nothing of it. This is the second request, and the smith's added eight shillings' interest."

She couldn't believe it. She wanted to see the biH, but she didn't want to go anywhere near him. "I can't account for it, my lord. I never saw the original bill, which should have come to me in the normal course."

"So Judelet's lying?"

Her eyes flashed, then dropped to the desk. "No, of course not. There's been a mistake; the first bill was lost, or the smith never sent it."