"Then I'll retract that particular insult." She offered a tremulous smile. "Truce?"
He had wanted to amuse her, but when he looked into her smoky eyes, he saw devastation. Chilled, he realized that the only thing holding her together was willpower, and even the steeliest will had its limits. If she was not brought back from the precipice of fear, she might fall into the abyss.
"Truce, my dear." Again he drew her into his arms and bent his head to hers. When their lips touched there was a small shock, like the spark that sometimes occurred in cold weather. Part of that was the attraction that always vibrated between them, but this time there were disquieting undercurrents.
As she responded to the kiss, her rigidity lessened, but the improvement was short-lived. Her eyes drifted shut, and she suddenly stiffened again. Then she began tugging clumsily at his shirt to free it from his breeches.
He caught and immobilized her hands. "We have hours until dawn, and I intend to use every moment well," he said soothingly. "Relax, accept, enjoy. I promise that when we are done, what happened in the Place du Carrousel will seem like no more than a distant nightmare."
She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Rafe. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the hands and faces again. It's... it's like being set on by wolves." She drew an unsteady breath. "I can't control the terror, and the only thing I know that is stronger than fear is passion."
"It's true that passion has a way of obliterating everything else, at least for a while," he agreed. But he also knew that it would be hard for her to lose herself in desire when she was emotionally so close to the breaking point.
Then he saw how he must proceed. Not once had she called him "your grace" with her razor sarcasm. By the same token, for him the formidable countess had vanished, replaced by Margot Ashton. Quietly he said, "We need more than a truce, Margot. Let's try to go back to our earlier selves—to a time before life became so painful and complicated. Forget tonight's riot, and every other episode that has left scars and cynicism. Pretend that you're eighteen, and I'm twenty-one, and the world is a place of infinite promise."
"I don't know if I can," she said, her voice aching. "If only it were really possible to go back."
"I would take you to the past if I could, but I'm afraid that's beyond my power." Tenderly he brushed a shining strand of hair from her grazed cheek. "Still, for a few hours, we can recreate what might have been if the world were a simpler—or kinder—place."
"The world is neither simple nor kind," she said bitterly.
"Tonight it is." He lifted her hands and kissed them as if she were made of egg-shell porcelain. "Believe, Margot, if only for the next few hours."
Her tense fingers slowly uncurled. "I'll try, Rafe."
He resumed their kiss, deliberately focusing all of his attention on the sensual merging of their mouths. Tonight was the wedding night he had dreamed of when they were betrothed. Nothing in the world mattered beyond the softness of her lips on his, the rough, moist texture of her tongue, the warmth of her breasts compressing against his chest.
At eighteen Maggot had been innocent, but also impetuous and eager for new experience. Though Rafe at twenty-one had been experienced enough to insure that all would go smoothly, he had still had enough youthful optimism to believe in happy endings.
For a moment the ugly reality of what had destroyed that optimism intruded on his imaginings, but he pushed it away. Tonight was for what might have been, and silently he vowed that all the subtle skills of love that he had ever learned would be his gift to her.
As when he had been calming Castlereagh's frightened horse, he created tranquility within himself so that his mood could be transmitted to Margot. Her fear gradually diminished, the tension flowing from her like sand from an hourglass.
When her body had become malleable, he began trailing kisses across her high cheekbones. He reached her ear and licked the dainty, complex shapes with his tongue.
She gave a breathy sigh of pleasure, and her head fell back. With humility, he thought of what trust it took to offer one's vulnerable throat to another being. Strange, that in spite of all the suspicion and conflict there had been between them, she could trust him when she was at her most defenseless.
He pressed his mouth to the fragile skin below her jaw, feeling the beat of her blood and the whispery vibration of her breath. Spreading one hand behind her back for support, he began unfastening the small round buttons that secured the front of her nightgown.
As her pale skin was revealed, his lips drifted, slow and thorough. Pretending that tonight was an earlier, simpler time gave him a delicious sense of naughtiness as he delved lower and lower. When he blew lightly into the shadowed valley formed by her breasts, she trembled, then began kneading his back with restless fingertips.
After six buttons the nightgown would open no further, so he reached for the hem of the garment to remove it entirely. But when he had raised the hem to the middle of her thighs, he paused. For a clothed man to make love to a naked female implied things about power and dominance that were not what he wanted Margot to feel. They should be equally exposed.
He slid from the bed and swiftly removed his clothing, then joined her again as her dazed eyes opened to see where he had gone. Her high cheekbones were dramatically sculpted by candlelight, and the shadow of fear was still on her.
"I haven't forsaken you, Margot," he said quietly. "I'm here for as long as you want me to be, and no longer." Though if she wanted him to stop, he didn't know how he would be able to endure it.
This time she moved to him, wrapping her slim, strong arms around his bare waist before touching her full lips to his mouth. He guessed that tonight she would speak little, so it was up to him to sense what she needed.
During the deep, unhurried kiss that followed, he drew her nightgown up over the tantalizing curves of her body. The flimsy fabric stayed crumpled around her shoulders for several minutes because neither of them could bear to separate long enough to allow the garment to be pulled over her head.
Finally he broke away and tugged the gown off, then tossed it aside. As his gaze went over her, he drew an involuntary breath. What a fool he had been to think that all women were made much the same. For him, Margot was the essence of female mystery, and she aroused him as no other woman ever had.
A tremor in his voice, he said, "You're as beautiful as I've always known you would be."
She gave a fleeting smile, then hid her face against his shoulder like the shy virgin bride of his imagination. "It's nice to pretend. To begin again," she whispered, her breath caressing his neck.
"More than nice. Marvelous." He stroked her hair, and the lustrous strands twined around his fingers. "Magical."
When she exhaled with delight, the movement caused her nipples to swing teasingly across his chest. His body tightened painfully, less willing to accept patience than his mind.
For a moment he teetered perilously between lust and restraint. Perhaps she was ready....
No. It was too soon. Over the years, his feverish dreams of her had been a product of his own eternal desire, but tonight his needs must be secondary.
After mastering himself, he gently pressed her back into the pillows. She was as pliant as willow, like the trusting girl she had been. He found it remarkable that for tonight, at least, she had managed to put aside her stubborn independence in favor of a sweetly feminine yielding.
Numerous bruises, obscene and ugly, marred the creamy perfection of her body. Instinctively he touched his lips to a purple-black patch on her forearm before remembering that he should be more careful. "Did that hurt you?"
"No." Her fingers curled into the counterpane. "Oh, no."
Taking that as encouragement, he gave each mark a feather-light caress with his tongue. Shoulder, elbow, hip, ribs, abdomen, and thigh. Ragged changes in her breathing tracked his progress like musical counterpoint.
When each bruise had been acknowledged, he cupped her lush breasts in his hands and buried his face in the tender cle
ft between. Her heart beat against his cheek, powerful and warmly alive.
If matters had gone differently—if the pistol had misfired—that indomitable heart might have been forever silenced.
Needing to obliterate the unthinkable, he turned his head and began suckling her breast. She whimpered and arched upward, her nipple going taut against the roof of his mouth.
Her hips began shifting with restless eagerness, so he drew both hands downward, his palms shaping the rich swell from waist to thigh. The tawny thatch between her thighs was a shade darker than the hair on her head, autumn oak rather than summer gold.
As he licked the warm convex surface of her belly, he slipped his palm between her knees. She gave a sudden gasp that was not pleasure, and her legs locked together.
"Trust me, Margot," he murmured, "It's natural to be nervous the first time, but I swear that I won't harm you."
She made a sound that seemed wrenched from deep inside her. Then, with obvious effort, she forced herself to relax again.
He caressed her tense limbs until her relaxation was genuine. At the same time, and moving with the same rhythm, he nuzzled and kissed her breasts and belly. By the time his hand had progressed to the top of her inner thighs, she radiated heat and yearning. He wove his fingers through the soft tawny curls to the hidden mysteries below.
When he touched her, she gave a small cry. Her hips shifted spasmodically, pressing into his hand. He probed more deeply, finding folds of delicate flesh that pulsed against his fingertips, lavishly moist.
As he expertly petted and probed, her nails bit painfully deep into his shoulders. "N-now?" she quavered.
"Soon, my dear. Soon." He continued until he judged that she was on the verge of culmination. Then, throbbing with painful desire, he positioned himself over her. He entered slowly, and the tight, welcoming clasp of her body was everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. Knowing he was on the verge of explosion, he held still, his whole being hammering with an insistence that drowned out all the world but her.
Maggie had expected that there would be awkwardness at joining their strangers' bodies for the first time, but there was none. They might have been designed by nature as ideal mates, and she felt completed as never before. Without conscious volition, her pelvis curled demandingly against Rafe's.
He gasped. "S-steady now." He was braced above her, his broad shoulders rimmed by light, his strong features enigmatic in the shadows. He had as many bruises as she, and again she was awestruck by the courage and strength he had displayed in saving a woman he despised.
He was magnificent, all power and masculine grace, and she would savor every instant of their mating. In a distant corner of her mind, she knew that she would pay a bitterly high price for this joy, but she refused to think about that now. Wanting more of him, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him down, relishing the hard weight of his body pressing her into the feather mattress.
Stormclouds had been gathering around them ever since Rafe had arrived in Paris, and as he thrust into her, the storm struck. Furiously it swept her along, racing through her blood, driving all fear and doubt away. Then lightning blazed through every cell of her body, Moaning, she clung to him as the one certainty in the tempest.
The tumult died away, leaving her body quivering and her consciousness fractured. Only gradually did she realize that he was still hard within her. She ran her hands over his sweat-slicked back. "You haven't .."
"Don't worry about me," he said before she could finish. "The night is young."
Though that wasn't true, she did not bother to disagree. It was enough simply to be joined with him. Safe.
Yet desire still simmered within her. Rafe understood her body better than she did, for he knew when to begin moving again. His first strokes were infinitesimal, yet they generated an astonishing amount of heat. She matched his movements, and as the tempo increased, they ignited each other. The intimacy between them was scorching, a baring of mind and body that was frightening in its intensity.
Frantically she twisted her head back and forth as their bodies melded with stunning force. What had gone before was prologue, mere overture to a more urgent hunger than any she had ever known. This time the rising storm was not wind, but fire, burning away her awareness until there was only flame within her. Gone were fear and prudence, anger and hate, leaving only the searing knowledge that the man she loved was enfolding her with passion and exquisite tenderness.
She reached shattering fulfillment, and was consumed by fire. Unable to suppress the words, she gasped, "I love you."
Storm and fire. Disintegration and rebirth. Through the conflagration, she heard him groan, "Oh, God... God help me."
With shocking suddenness he withdrew, crushing her in his arms as he thrust hotly against her belly. After a handful of violent movements, his seed spurted between them.
She held him with all her strength, tears seeping between her eyelids. Once again Rafe was protecting her from potential disaster.
During the years she and Robin had been lovers, they had taken great care not to start a child, for there was no place in their perilous lives for a family. In her mind, she knew that was still true.
Yet some of her tears were for the loss of what might have been—the children she and Rafe might have had in the last dozen years if they had married; the baby that might have been conceived in tenderness tonight. Gone like the wind, like all her other dreams.
Rafe shifted his weight from her and used the discarded nightgown to dry them both. Then he drew her into his arms and they both dozed off without speaking.
The words did not exist that could describe how she felt.
* * *
With a terrified gasp, Maggie awoke from a nightmare. Panic, pain, destruction—all of the familiar, ghastly fears that had been triggered by the incident in the Plaza du Carrousel crowded into her mind.
Shivering, she burrowed closer to Rafe. Even in sleep he radiated safety. Almost compulsively, she stroked his chest, smoothing the dark hair that felt so sensual against her breasts.
When his breathing changed, she stopped, not wanting to wake him. Yet she found that she couldn't keep her hands away. She loved the smooth warmth of his skin, the candlelit contrast between his darkness and her paleness.
A stirring under the sheet indicated that part of him, at least, was waking. As if it had a life of its own, her hand pulled the sheet down and touched him. Heated male flesh unfurled into her palm.
His eyes remained closed, but his hand lifted and he started massaging the nape of her neck. Warmth spread through her, and she wanted to purr like a kitten. Even more, she wanted to roar like a lioness.
She began kissing him, bypassing his mouth in favor of other sensitive places. The junction between jaw and throat; the hollow above his collarbones; his flat, dusky nipples; the supple indentations between muscular thighs and flat abdomen.
Though he didn't move from his supine position, his breathing quickened and his right hand caressed whatever parts of her came within reach. Vowing that this time she would drive him to madness, she bent forward and kissed him in the most sensitive place of all, using her mouth and tongue to demonstrate what she could not speak aloud.
He sucked in his breath, and his limbs began to tremble. She redoubled her efforts, reveling in her power to move him. This time he would be swept into the storm as thoroughly as she.
He made a guttural exclamation and ground his fist into the mattress. Yet before she could bring him to culmination, he abruptly abandoned passivity and rolled her onto her back, reversing their positions. He pleasured her expertly, his heated mouth enflaming her, holding her at the brink of ecstasy, until she panted with frantic need.
Finally they came together like clashing cymbals. This was not the remembered innocence of youth, but the ardent sensuality of experience—skilled and knowing and unashamed.
Yet in spite of the mind-drugging pleasure, she knew that only his body was fully engaged. His min
d and spirit held back, leaving a shadow of emptiness at the heart of intimacy.
Even as she shuddered with convulsive release, she mourned. He was as superb as a lover as one could imagine—except that he did what he did without love.
* * *
Margot slept in his arms, utterly still in the depths of exhaustion, her tangled hair adrift on his bare chest. Rafe was so tired that he could barely find the strength to raise his hand and brush the dark gold strands from her eyes, to trace the fine bones of her face. Yet he could not sleep.
One might say that he had been lucky, for fate had given him the opportunity to free himself of his obsession by allowing this passionate interlude with the woman who held him in thrall.
One would have been wrong. Though he had succeeded in his goal of briefly severing her awareness from her tortured memories, for him it had been an empty victory.
For years, he had dreamed of Margot coming to him with sweet words of longing and an intoxicating invitation. Tonight part of his dream had come true, yet he had discovered the bitter truth that the invitation was hollow without the sweet words.
If there had been only silence between them, he would have been able to maintain the illusion that they were lovers in truth. Instead, Margot had been so lost to her circumstances that words of love had escaped her. The declaration had hurt more deeply than he would have dreamed possible, because he knew that it was meant for another man. It was Anderson who held her heart. Only chance had brought her to his own bed tonight, when she desperately needed oblivion.
Yet in spite of the pain, he wished the night would never end. He had wanted Margot Ashton back, and with the bittersweet treachery that marked the gods' answers to human prayers, he had gotten what he wanted. What Rafe hadn't realized was that if he found Margot again, he would once more be as blindly, helplessly in love with her as he had been at twenty-one.
The obsession he had felt for Countess Janos was only another name for that love, but he had been too cynical to name his emotions truly. In the dark, with the palest of dawn light etching the windows, he recognized starkly that he had never stopped loving Margot. No matter what her betrayals and lies, no matter how many beds she had passed through, he loved her—more than wisdom, more than pride, more than life itself.