“Yes,” Bernard said calmly. “But she was beautiful and charming and irresistible. No man could stop himself from wanting her or falling in love with her. And no woman could ever equal her. In Max’s eyes, that is.”
“Apparently not in yours, either,” Alexandre said slowly. “I never knew she had such an effect on you.”
“She did on every man she encountered, little brother. You were just too young to notice.”
“Perhaps,” came Alexandre’s doubtful reply. “But as to this one, do you think there’s a chance Max will ever come to love her?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Lysette edged away, the color running high in her cheeks. Hurt feelings battled with anger. Unconsciously she reached a hand up to her hair— the unruly hair that had caused her such misery in her youth. Corinne must have had the smooth, dark hair that Creoles prized so greatly. Corinne must have flirted to perfection with the men who admired her, and hypnotized them with her beauty.
She felt a presence behind her. Whirling, she began to speak, but stuttered into silence when she saw nothing but empty space in the softly lit hall. A ghost, she thought whimsically, and sighed, wondering if some phantom had an eternal claim on Max that Lysette could never hope to break.
———
Max returned at midnight, ushering in a sheet of rain and a dull crack of thunder from outside as he entered the house. The heavy rain had started early in the evening, breaking the oppressive heat and spreading its cooling touch over the steaming Louisiana marsh and swamps. The downpour had turned the streets and roads into deep sticky mud, almost impossible for horses’ hooves to slog through, more difficult yet for carriage wheels.
Max strode through the quiet house, his mouth hardening as he thought of his wife sleeping peacefully upstairs. For him the nights brought no rest, only torment, restless tossing and turning. He made his way to the curving staircase with the overcautious movements of a man who had raised his cup far too many times that evening. He was drunk, having spent his evening at a local tavern swilling strong spirits, not the refined burgundies and ports that Creole gentlemen usually restricted themselves to. Unfortunately, he was not drunk enough.
Water streamed from his hair and clothes to the summer matting on the floor and the carpet on the stairs. It gave Max a petty sense of satisfaction, knowing Noeline would fume tomorrow when she saw the muddy boot marks, but wouldn’t dare utter a word. No one dared reprove him for anything he did when his temper was foul. The entire family, including the servants, stayed well out of his way, knowing from experience that it was unwise to cross his path.
“Max,” he heard a soft voice as he reached the top of the stairs.
He stopped as he saw Lysette, dressed in a loose nightgown, her heavy braid falling over her shoulder and down to her waist. Her pale face and white gown almost glowed in the darkness.
“You look like a little ghost,” he said, taking a step closer to her, then stopping as if encountering an invisible wall.
“I heard you come in. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” She came forward and touched his arm. “Let me help you to your room.”
“I don’t need help.”
“I’ll reserve opinion on that,” she said, and took his arm firmly. “Please, Max.”
He complied with a surly grunt, shivering in his cold, wet clothes. They went into his bedroom and Lysette fumbled to light a bedside lamp.
“Don’t bother,” Max muttered. “I’ll be asleep soon. Just need… to get out of these clothes.” He sat on a chair and removed his muddy boots, while Lysette brought some folded towels. Reaching for his cravat to untie it, Max discovered the damn thing was already loose, hanging limply on either side of his neck. He threw it to the floor and fought his way out of his clammy coat and waistcoat. His dripping shirt was discarded next, and he stood clad only in his breeches as Lysette toweled off his chest and back. She was clean and dainty and dry, whereas he was a clumsy, drunken mess.
“Lysette, you have to leave now,” he said irritably.
She paused in her ministrations. “Why?”
“Because I’m too drunk to do anything except the one thing you don’t want. So you’d better go to your own bed, or you’re going to find yourself heels-up in mine.”
A crack of lightning lit the room with blue-white brilliance. During the split second of illumination, Lysette’s gaze had fastened on Max with an intensity that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. He remained motionless, his liquor-dulled brain struggling to understand what that expression had meant.
He felt her small hands slide over his breeches, her fingers prying at the buttons on the front flap. His breath was knocked from his throat, and his cock jerked to life, hardening and swelling irrepressibly. “Lysette…” His lungs worked like leaky bellows. “No, don’t. Don’t. If you touch me, I can’t—” He broke off with a sharp gasp as the flap fell open and her warm hand slid over the length of his shaft, up and down. He throbbed violently in response to the deliberate stroking. The other hand cupped his testicles, fondling gently, her palm supporting their weight. “I can’t…” he managed again, his trembling hands coming to grasp her narrow shoulders.
“You can’t what?” Lysette asked, her breath puffing against his nipple. The tip of her tongue flicked at the tiny point. His chest was filled with fire, and the blood roared in his ears until he could barely hear her. “Can’t make love to me?” she asked.
He wound her braid around his fist and urged her head back. “Can’t stop,” he answered raggedly, and seized her mouth with his.
Chapter 8
After removing Lysette’s nightgown and his own breeches, Max carried her to the bed. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” he said hoarsely. “Even dirty and scratched and with your breasts bound flat, I thought you were beautiful. You were so exhausted you could barely stay on your feet, but you defied me as no one else ever had.”
“And you wanted me,” she said in pleasure, arching upward as he kissed her throat.
He answered between kisses, each one a slow burst of fire. “So much that I promised myself… I would do whatever was necessary to keep you.” His breathing turned choppy as he glanced down at her naked body. “Lysette… don’t change your mind tonight. I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop—”
Lysette interrupted him with her mouth, and pulled his hand to her bare breast. “I won’t change my mind,” she said throatily. “Do anything you want. Do everything.”
“No, not everything,” he said thickly, while his fingertips moved over the small curve of her breast. “You’re too innocent for that, ma petite.”
A delicious shiver coursed down her spine. “Then do as much as you think I can bear.”
Max needed no further invitation. His body lowered, and he allowed some of his weight to settle between her thighs, pinning her in place. The length of his sex pressed into the furrow hidden in the triangle of silky-rough curls. Lysette relaxed beneath him, her eyes closing as she felt him take her nipple between his fingers, gently shaping it into a hard peak. His head bent, the soft, wet warmth of his mouth closing around her. He suckled and flicked the delicate tip with his tongue, until she could no longer prevent the helpless moans that surged from her throat. His mouth dragged across her chest, dipping sweetly into the shallow valley in the center, lazily ascending the second gentle curve. His tongue touched her breast in a velvety stroke that made it throb unbearably. She pulled harder at his head, urging him to take her deeper into his mouth, and he complied with a slowness that nearly made her scream. Dimly she began to understand the sensuous game he was playing, that he intended to prolong her torturous desire, and his own, until they could bear it no longer.
With each soft tug of his mouth, Lysette squirmed upward, her hips lifting against the underside of his shaft. The feel of him was so incendiary that she began to concentrate on the motion, her legs spreading, her body rubbing his in a quickening rhythm.
A muffled laugh escap
ed him, and he rolled away from her.
“No,” she panted. “Max, let me—”
“Not yet.” His voice was soft and rough with passion. “I’ll give you satisfaction, petite… but not yet.”
She climbed over him with feminine determination, crushing her breasts into the thick black fleece on his chest. Her mouth caught at his, and she pressed against his long body in an effort to sabotage his self-control. For a few scorching moments, Max allowed her to make love to him, his large hands sliding over her back and buttocks. Soon, however, he rolled her over and pinned her arms to her sides.
“Let me touch you,” Lysette implored, her fingers digging into the mattress.
He ignored her, his thighs wedging between hers.
“Max,” she groaned, “I need to touch you. Let go of my hands, please, I have to feel you….”
His mouth wandered from the fine vault of her ribs to her stomach, until the muscles of her abdomen tightened exquisitely. His tongue entered the hollow of her navel with a soft swirl. Her wrists strained against his grasp, and she gasped sharply. He continued to tease and stroke, until she was sweating and rigid beneath him. His mouth drifted lower, moving languidly over her stomach.
She was shocked to feel his lips venture near the triangle between her thighs. “Max,” she moaned as his long fingers combed gently through the curls. Catching her salty female scent, he inhaled deeply. Lysette wanted to die at the unbearable intimacy, and her hands went to his head, fingers sliding into his rain-soaked hair. “Don’t,” she gasped, trying to push him away.
“You said I could do anything.” His fingers searched the delicate entrance to her body.
“I didn’t know what I was saying. I didn’t think… Oh, God.”
He had done the unimaginable, his mouth invading the tender cleft, his tongue thrusting past the sensitive inner lips. She sobbed and clutched at the wet dark head nestled between her thighs. He searched her hungrily, his hands clamping over her hips to hold her still. With each lap and stroke and flick of his tongue, her innocence dissolved like melting sugar. Soon his attentions centered on the erect little peak that throbbed with yearning. He drew her into the soft suction of his mouth, pulling rhythmically at her vulnerable flesh.
Lysette pulled her knees back in a desperate, shameless plea. Taking pity on her, Max flicked her with light, swift strokes of his tongue, while his middle finger found the opening to her body and slid deep inside. She climaxed with a harsh gasp, her knees closing around his head, her body shaking with pleasure. His mouth remained on her for a long time afterward, his tongue nurturing every last quiver of delight, until she was limp and boneless beneath him.
Rising over her, Max positioned himself between her spread legs and entered her in a swift thrust. He filled her completely, stretching her, sliding until he could go no farther. Lysette bit her lip and arched at the painful intrusion of his hard flesh, her hands fisting against his back.
Max stopped immediately. “Does it hurt?” He took her head in his hands, his salt-flavored mouth brushing over hers. “I’m sorry, ma petite. I’ll try to be careful. I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t stop,” she moaned, wrapping herself around him.
Max made a rough sound and began to thrust inside her carefully, trying not to hurt her. He kissed her breasts, her mouth, seeming to lose awareness of everything but her. His violent panting contrasted sharply with the easy motion of his hips, and she realized what a tight restraint he had placed on himself. She pressed her face into the damp satiny curve of his neck. “I knew it would be like this,” she whispered, caressing his iron-hard back. His skin was slippery with rain and sweat. “I knew how gentle you would be. Don’t hold back. I want all of you.”
The words seemed to push him over the edge. He groaned and impaled her deeply, his large body jerking against hers. She gasped in delight as his silky-hard flesh throbbed inside her. Strange, that she could feel so vulnerable and yet so strong, with her body filled and weighted and surrounded by the man she loved. Stranger still, that she had finally yielded herself to him without knowing whether he loved her in return. She wanted to give him as much of herself as she could, with no conditions or expectations.
Max rolled to his side and gathered her against his chest. Purring, Lysette insinuated one of her thighs between his, loving the heat and texture of his body. The smell of the storm came in through the partially opened window, mingling headily with the musky spice of damp skin and sex.
Max’s hand drifted over her breast. His voice was deep and languid. “It will be better the next time, I promise.”
“I hope not.” Lysette stroked the side of his waist, her fingers wandering to the line where sun-darkened skin faded into the paler territory of his hip. “I’m not certain that I could survive anything better than that.”
A laugh stirred in his chest, and his lips pressed against her hair. “What a passionate little wife you are,” he whispered.
“More passionate than your placée?”
Max went still at the question. “There is no comparison between you and Mariame, ma chère. I have never desired anyone, nor found such pleasure with anyone, as I have with you.”
“You do care for Mariame, though, oui?”
“Of course. She has been a kind and generous friend. I owe a great deal to her.”
“In what way?” Lysette asked, feeling a stab of jealousy.
“After Corinne’s death, I thought I would never want a woman again. Every woman in New Orleans was afraid of me, and I…” He paused, the words catching in his throat. Surprised that Max had ventured to speak about his mysterious past with her, Lysette waited patiently for him to continue. “In a way I was afraid of myself,” Max finally said. “Everything was different. I was accustomed to being liked and admired, and suddenly everyone treated me with scorn, or coldness, or fear. I was celibate for almost two years. Then I heard that Mariame had been abandoned by the man who had been keeping her. I had seen her before and admired her beauty. She needed someone to provide for her and her child… and I needed someone like her.”
“What is she like?” Lysette asked.
“Comfortable,” he said after a moment. “She has a pleasant nature. I’ve rarely ever seen her in a temper, and she has never been demanding or impatient.”
“Unlike me,” Lysette said ruefully.
He rose above her, his broad shoulders blocking the lightning flashes from the storm. “Do you know what I would change about you, petite?” he asked softly.
“What?” she asked, half afraid to hear the answer.
“Nothing at all.” His head descended to hers, and for a long time he kept her too busy to speak.
Chapter 9
Max awakened to the sensation of invisible fiends pounding on his head with mallets. He squinted his eyes open and jerked in painful surprise as a ray of sunshine slanted across his throbbing eyeballs. Cursing in French and English, he rolled to his stomach and rooted beneath his pillow in violent denial of morning.
“Mon mari.” He heard Lysette’s amused but sympathetic voice. Her gentle hand brushed over his naked back. “Tell me how I can help. What is your usual cure for… what do the Americans call it?… pickling yourself? Will you take some coffee? Water? Willow-bark tea?”
Max’s stomach roiled at the notion of swallowing anything. “Dieu, non. Just let me—” He broke off as the touch of her hand recalled memories of the night before. Many of the details were lost in a liquor-soaked fog, but he did remember seeing her when he had arrived home… she had helped him to remove his clothes… and sometime after that, he had…
Throwing the pillow aside, Max sat bolt upright, ignoring the agony that stabbed through his head. “Lysette,” he croaked. She sat beside him on the bed, dressed in a white robe with ruffles down the front, her hair hanging in a braid and tied with a strip of lace. Max would have thought she looked angelic… except that no angel had kiss-swollen lips and whisker burns all over her throat.
“R
elax, ma cher,” she told him with a smile. “There is no need to look so alarmed.”
“Last night…” he said unsteadily, his insides turning cold and leaden. “I was with you. I don’t remember all of it, but I know that we…”
“Yes, we did.”
The information shamed and appalled Max. No gentleman would ever take his wife when he was intoxicated… much less a virginal wife, who would have required gentleness and self-restraint and skill. He had taken her innocence while he was drunk. The realization was overwhelming. He must have hurt her. Dear God, she would never let him near her again, and he wouldn’t blame her. “Lysette…” He began to reach for her, then snatched his hands back. “Did I force myself on you?” he asked hoarsely.
Her eyes widened with surprise. “No. Of course you didn’t.”
“Did I hurt you? Was I rough?”
Her sudden laugh bewildered him. “Don’t you remember what happened, mon mari? You didn’t seem that much the worse for wear.”
“I remember my part of it. But I don’t remember yours.”
Smiling, Lysette leaned forward and touched his lower lip with her fingertip. “I’ll tell you, then. You tortured me, ma cher, and made me suffer terribly. And I adored every moment of it.”
“I didn’t take care of you afterward,” Max said in dull horror. “I didn’t bring you water, or a cloth, or…” A thought occurred to him, and he flipped back the sheets, discovering a small streak of blood on the snowy linen. She had bled, and he had done nothing for her. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered.
“You did fall asleep quite suddenly after all your exertions,” Lysette admitted with a grin, her fingers trailing over his hair-dusted thigh. “But I didn’t mind taking care of myself. It was hardly a problem, mon mari.”
Max did not understand how she could smile after what he had done to her, debauching her in the middle of the night when he’d been staggering drunk. He tunneled his fingers into his rumpled hair, down to his aching scalp. “Lysette,” he said without looking at her, “if you can find some way to forgive me, someday… I swear it will never happen again. I’m certain you don’t believe that now, but I—”