He cupped a hand over the back of her head and pressed her face to his shoulder, muffling whatever else she meant to say. “Don’t start worrying about Mrs. Whitmire,” he whispered fiercely. “I won’t really let her go.” His fingers tightened convulsively over her scalp, conveying a depth of emotion she felt vibrating through his muscular body. “God, Cassandra…how could you think, even for a moment, that I would hurt you that badly and not stop?” he asked in a throbbing voice. “I’d rather cut off my arm, sweetheart. Anything but hurt you.”
By the very shakiness of his whisper, she knew he meant it, and shame flooded over her for feeling afraid. Wresting her face to one side, she said, “Oh, Luke, I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t. Not intentionally, anyway.”
His chest shook slightly with a low chuckle. “Not intentionally, nor otherwise.” He moved back a bit to capture her face between his hands again. “Ah, Cassie, girl. I want you so….”
Cassandra wished he would tell her he loved her, but for reasons she couldn’t understand, love was a word Luke seemed reluctant to say. He had, however, told her that he cared about her. Looking up into his golden brown eyes, she decided that his actually saying the words wasn’t necessary. The message was there, in his gaze, in the warmth and depth of feeling that could only be love, whether he expressed it aloud or not.
Very carefully, he pressed her back against the wall again, keeping enough distance between their bodies so he had room to unfasten the little ribbons of her bodice. Two nights ago, he’d seen her naked bosom, but to Cassandra that seemed a lifetime ago. Making fists at her sides, she fought against the urge to capture his hands. Slowly, bow by bow, her bodice parted, baring her breasts.
She hauled in a burning breath when he sent the nightgown sliding off her shoulders. Like a whisper, the eyelet and lawn fell to the floor, puddling about her bare feet. He moved back slightly and lowered his gaze. When she started to cross her arms, he caught her wrists.
“Oh, no…” he said huskily. “Let me look at you.”
Cassandra yearned to close her eyes. She felt like a bug pinned to velvet, a specimen he meant to study. And study her, he did. Suddenly and horribly conscious of every flaw of her body, she died a little with each passing second, convinced he’d cease to want her when he saw how ugly she was: the round swell of her belly, the plumpness of her hips, her short legs, her big breasts. She recalled those few times she’d glimpsed herself nude in a full-length mirror—the last time, that very afternoon at Miss Dryden’s dress shop. In Cassandra’s estimation, she looked like blobs of bread dough someone had lumped together. It was humiliating to think Luke might be making the same comparison. He’d seen parts of her the other night, but not the whole of her, all at once.
“My God, you’re glorious,” he whispered raggedly.
Cassandra blinked. “I am?”
“You are,” he assured her.
There was such awe in his voice. Cassandra’s superstitious Irish nature got the best of her, and she absolutely had to look down, just to make sure the little people hadn’t been up to some mischief, a part of her almost hoping they had. She would have welcomed a bit of leprechaun magic right now, to smooth out her lumps and skinny up her fat spots. But, no, it was the same short, stout body down there that she’d always had.
“I have a fat bum,” she blurted out.
Luke arched a tawny eyebrow. “Do you now?” Still imprisoning her wrists in his firm grip, he leaned around to look at the body part in question. Cassandra flattened herself against the wall in an attempt to foil him. “It looks like a pleasingly plump bum to me,” he said warmly.
“That’s what Papa says, that I’m ‘pleasingly plump.’”
“What’s wrong with his saying that?”
“I hate it. What he really means is that I’m fat, but he thinks I’m cute in spite of it.”
Luke threw back his head and laughed. The sound so startled her that she was taken completely off guard when he suddenly drew her away from the wall and released his hold on her wrists to step slowly around her, his gaze glinting as he surveyed her, front and back, head to toe. She crossed her arms and cupped her palms in an attempt to conceal her breasts, which another girl had once told her were so big they looked like cow udders.
“Your papa is absolutely right,” Luke finally said. “You are ‘pleasingly plump.’ And you know what?”
“No, what?”
“Pleasingly is a word kind of like breakfast, I’ll bet, one that came to be over hundreds of years.” As he finished circling her and came to a stop at center front, he flashed a slow smile. “A word people invented, I’m sure, to describe things that pleased them or gave them pleasure. And you know what, Cassie, girl? You please me.”
“Do I?” It was difficult to squeeze enough air out of her lungs to form words.
“Know what else?”
She shook her head. He reached out suddenly and touched the tip of one nipple with a fingertip, making her jump.
“You missed a spot,” he informed her.
Cassandra moved her hands to correct that. He merely smiled and touched his fingertip to another spot she’d inadvertently exposed in the attempt.
“I think your biggest problem is that your hands are too small,” he whispered huskily as he stepped toward her, grasping her wrists as he advanced. “Too small to cover everything you seem determined to hide, at any rate.” He drew her arms down to her sides. “I think you need a larger pair of hands to do the job. Don’t you?”
He settled his palms over the places her own had just vacated. Cassandra dragged in a breath and held it as a liquid warmth rippled from the tips of her breasts and began to roll through her. He bent his head, his lips hovering inches from hers, his gaze delving deeply into her eyes.
“You’re beautiful, sweetheart. Absolutely beautiful. Do you know what I like the very best about you?”
“No, what?” she managed to croak.
“That you don’t realize how very lovely you are.” His lips moved marginally closer, every moist huff of his breath caressing her mouth like spring mist, making her senses thrill, yet sending shivers over her skin. “Every other beautiful woman I’ve ever known has been vain. It’s delightful to finally meet one who isn’t, to be able to tell you you’re lovely and have you look so surprised to hear it. My God, Cassandra, how can you not know? Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror?”
“Of course. That’s one of the reasons I decided to become a nun.”
“Over my dead body. You’re mine—every sweet inch of you—and don’t you ever forget it.”
The throbbing intensity in his voice quickened her pulse. A rushing sound began in her ears, slight at first, like the distant sound of a rising wind that gained force and definition within her as he lightly touched his lips to hers.
Luke. Everywhere he touched her, she felt a melting, liquid heat, her skin so sensitized, even the downy hair on her arms began to tingle. He ran his hands from her breasts to her shoulders, then down to her elbows, his fingertips touching her so lightly, she felt as if she were standing nude in the rain. Each trailing touch of his fingertips was like a raindrop sluicing over her skin, the rivulets imbued with electricity from bolts of lightning that hadn’t yet struck.
Luke was the lightning, she thought nonsensically. A sizzling electrical feeling seemed to emanate from him. As he touched her, he lingered here and there, tracing every curve, every crease, as though to commit everything about her to memory. Stirring shivers radiated outward from every place he settled his hands.
Then, hard and searing, he settled his mouth more firmly over hers, the contact so compelling and urgent it made her heart skitter. Wet silk. That was how his mouth felt, like wet, lush silk.
With no warning, he suddenly lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. After depositing her gently on the satin coverlet, he stood over her, his gaze molten amber as he surveyed her. Fire and candlelight created a shining nimbus around him, casting his broad shoulders and
tawny hair in flickering gold, throwing parts of his face into shadow. He finished unbuttoning his shirt, the burnished planes of his well-padded chest revealed as the white silk fell open to his waist. An instant later, the shirt whispered to the floor.
Cassandra gazed up at him, mesmerized. He was the beautiful one, she thought, not her. With each move he made, the bulges in his shoulders and upper arms rippled and bunched, his dark skin gleaming as though rubbed with oil. He knelt beside her on the mattress, the bare breadth of his chest bathed in firelight, which somehow seemed to meld with him, making it difficult to tell where the tawniness of his hair and skin ended and the flickering amber began.
With a reverence that nearly brought tears to her eyes, he moved his hands to lightly trace the upper swells of her breasts. Her breath caught as the callused heels of his hands skimmed the tips of her nipples. He smiled at her shuddering reaction, then leaned forward slightly, his chest a canopy of bronze above her.
Cassandra forgot to feel afraid. Instead, she reached up to touch a fingertip to his collarbone, tracing its planes. From there, she trailed her hand down to explore his flat nipple, which gleamed like a coppery nugget in a light furring of golden hair. His breath caught, and she could almost feel the tension in him mounting. He was magic. He was firelight. He was a molten heat that washed over her and into her.
Her breasts burned and ached, craving more of his touch. He slipped an arm under her, catching her at the small of her back and splaying a hand beneath her spine. With seemingly little effort, he lifted her so she lay arched over his forearm, her head back. With silken lips, he tasted the hollow beneath her ear, his tongue resting there a moment to measure the erratic fluttering of her pulse. Then, as if sampling a rare delicacy, he nibbled at her throat, his hot, open mouth settling above the V of her collarbone to once again measure her heartbeat, which was quickening with every breath she drew.
When his free hand settled low on her belly, Cassandra felt as if she were immersed in white-hot fire. He ran his palm slowly toward the apex of her thighs and the nest of dark curls there.
“Luke?” she managed to whisper.
“Trust me, Cassie,” he urged in a throbbing whisper. “Please, don’t be afraid of me. It tears me apart.”
Those last words called to her mind Mrs. Whitmire’s dire warnings. Cassandra made a feeble grab for his wrist just as he found the moist center of her femininity and slipped a fingertip inside her. Surprise jolted through her at the sensation. Her breath snagged in her throat, and for the space of a heartbeat, she was terrified that pain would surely follow. But just as she tried to voice a protest at the invasion, he pushed deep, his clever touch making her feel like a mirror that was shattering. Oh, yes…Blinding sparkles floated up from the center of her. She moaned and pushed hard against his hand, wanting, yet uncertain what it was she wanted.
His hot mouth settled over one of her nipples, the drawing heat igniting, and every brush of his tongue fanning the flames. Cassandra made fists in his hair. Mrs. Whitmire had been right; he was making her come apart. Only it was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. The most glorious feeling she’d ever experienced.
Luke felt the glow of Cassandra all around him, a sweet, bone-melting radiance that made it difficult for him to retain control. He wanted to make this perfect for her, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards. He had trouble kicking off his boots. The fastenings on his pants defied his clumsy fingers. With years of practice, he’d long since honed his sexual skills to a fine art, enabling him to divest a woman and himself of clothing with seductive ease. How, then, had he gotten his trousers tied into goddamned knots around his ankles?
Somehow, he finally worked one foot free, infuriated with himself for having to twist and jerk and shake his leg to accomplish the feat. Christ. Every time the mattress bounced, Cassandra blinked to focus. He didn’t want her to focus, dammit. He wanted her mindless. With one final shake of his leg, he divested himself of his pants, then bent to kiss her again, his heart pounding so hard he could scarcely think.
It didn’t seem to matter…. She opened her mouth to him, and he forgot nearly everything. She tasted like mulled wine spiced with cinnamon, warm, full-bodied, and intoxicating. God, she was sweet. So impossibly, incredibly sweet. If he hurt her in doing this, he’d never forgive himself.
The thought came over him like a dash of icy water. She was a virgin, and the first time was bound to be painful. He’d promised her only a slight bit of discomfort and a trace of blood. But what if Mrs. Whitmire was right, and it turned out to be an ordeal?
The truth was, Luke didn’t know for sure; he’d never been with a virgin. He had lied to this girl so many times he’d long since lost count. Please, God. He didn’t want her to look back and believe he’d lied to her about this as well.
His breath coming in ragged bursts, Luke braced himself above her. Her eyes half closed, her rosy mouth slightly swollen from his kisses, she restlessly moved her legs, her expression conveying that he’d filled her with urgent yearnings she didn’t quite understand.
Luke knelt between her silken thighs, his throbbing manhood poised at her entrance. He looked down at the glistening folds of her femininity, moist and ready. One thrust. All he had to do was drive forward, and it would be over. Just one forward motion of his hips.
He jerked his gaze back to her face. Her dark lashes fluttered upward, and those blue eyes looked into his. There was no fear reflected in them, just an utter trust he would never deserve.
Every muscle in Luke’s body tightened and began to shake. From somewhere at the edges of his mind, a little voice said, Go for it, man. Don’t be a fool. So what if it hurts like hell this one time? She’ll live through it, and you’ll have what you want.
But wasn’t that just the problem? That he’d always taken exactly what he wanted, to hell with her and everyone else?
“Luke?”
That was his name. At the moment, that was about the only thing Luke was absolutely certain of. He rolled away from her, landing on his back beside her, his masculine pride as limp as an overcooked noodle against his thigh. He angled an arm over his eyes, sick with shame. He felt like an idiot and could only imagine how she must be feeling. Great job, Taggart. He’d probably turned the poor girl away from sex forever, if his clumsy groping and failure to complete the act could even be called “sex.”
“I’m sorry,” he managed to grate out between clenched teeth.
He felt her move. The next second, her trembling body pressed full-length against his side, her slender arm draped over his chest. “Oh, Luke, what is it?”
Smart girl. Even she realized he hadn’t performed up to snuff. “I’m sorry,” he rasped again.
How could he tell her he was a liar and a trickster who wasn’t fit to kiss her feet, let alone take her virginity? How could he explain that just once, just one goddamned time in his whole miserable life, he wanted to be something better than what he actually was?
It was laughable. He was a pathetic piece of slime who had grabbed onto her sweetness and tried to escape the gutter his life had become. He’d been crazy to think he could make this work. Out of his mind. He’d schemed to have her, concocted lie after lie without a qualm. Eventually all those lies would catch up with him. When they did, they’d suck him under like quicksand. Daniel Beauregard was right; this whole plan was utter madness. Contracts, then marriage and shipping her male relatives off to the silver mine under armed guard. He was digging himself into such a deep hole, he’d never be able to climb out. He ought to just tell her the truth. All of it. And be done with it. To beg her forgiveness and pray to God she would grant it to him.
She ran a hand lightly over his chest. Her touch made his muscles jerk, an instinctive withdrawal he couldn’t control. With a fierce little cry, she ran her arm up to hug his neck and pressed her face against the hollow of his shoulder.
“Luke, what is it? Please, tell me what’s wrong.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, hands clenche
d to keep from reaching for her. Even now, his body screamed with wanting her, and he didn’t trust himself not to grab and take her. God help him, taking was all he knew.
“Don’t,” he bit out. “Don’t touch me, please.”
She went still and silent for a moment. Then she whispered, “Why? I love you, Luke. I want to touch you.”
A harsh laugh tore up from his chest, chafing his throat with burning, bitter heat. “You don’t love me, Cassandra. You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I know everything I need to know, at any rate. You’re a wonderful man, Luke. Why can’t you believe that?”
The hardened tips of her breasts branded his skin like burning embers, her silken softness beckoning him. Unable to bear it, Luke grasped her shoulders and lifted her away, his gaze locked with hers. “Let me tell you about Luke Taggart, the man you think you know so well. I’m a liar and a thief. I’ve lied to—”
She pressed a hand over his mouth, her blue eyes swimming with tears. “Stop it! Just stop it! I won’t let you say things like that about yourself! I won’t!”
He wrenched his face to one side. “You’re not listening to me. I’m telling you, I’m a liar. I’ve even lied to you. And I’ve done some terrible things, Cassandra. Things you may never—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. When you learn what I’ve—”
She clamped a hand over his mouth again, her eyes blazing with love for him. “Don’t!” she whispered fiercely. “It doesn’t matter, Luke. Nothing matters. Don’t you see? I don’t care. All that matters to me, and all that should matter to you, is right now, and how we’re going to go forward from here.”
God, how Luke wished he could believe that.
“Are you going to lie to me again?” she asked softly.
Looking deeply into her blue eyes, Luke knew with a certainty that was foreign to him that he never would. That he couldn’t. Grasping her slender wrist, he moved her fingers from over his mouth.
“No,” he rasped, “I’ll never lie to you again. Never. But I—”