CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 21
Rain dripped off the roof of the lych-gate, rattling on the shiny, lacquered wood of the coffins, soaking into the ebony velvet bunting of the hearse. The horses' black plumes drooped, soggy with the damp. It was fitting weather for a funeral.
The whole countryside had gathered at St. Genny's cemetery. Some were drawn as always by the enactment of a tragedy, but most were there out of respect for the earl. Hadn't he brought work to these parts? said Salome Stout to her mistress, the Reverend Mrs. Troutbeck. And he one of the scapegrace Trelawnys, them as never cared a tuppence for Cornwall before. Well, the mining venture had ended badly to be sure, but give the man his due, he had tried.
The pallbearers carried the caskets one at a time to where the freshly turned earth lay black in the spring grass among the leaning salt-pitted gravestones. It did not take as many hands to lift the second one, small as it was. 'Twas no bigger than a lobster basket, Little Jessie Stout said, earning a shush from her mam. If the babe had lived, so Dr. Humphrey said, it would have been a boy.
They spoke in reverent whispers of how Lady Caerhays had miscarried her babe on the bluff above Wheal Patience that terrible night of the fall and of how she had died, bleeding and feverish, two days later. The earl had not even been in his right head himself when the poor thing had slipped away.
Miss Jessalyn had been with her at the end, though, and there was another tragedy. Burned out of house and home she and old Lady Letty had been, and this hardly a week gone by. Left with scarcely a rag to stand up in. Still, she had trimmed her hat with black mourning ribbons this day, out of proper respect for the dead, so Mrs. Troutbeck pointed out to Mrs. Childrens, the baker's wife. She had grown up a proper lady, had Miss Jessalyn, for all her earlier harum-scarum ways.
The Reverend Troutbeck fumbled through the service, twice losing his place. Not many noticed, though, for they were too intent on studying the earl. The women thought he looked romantic, like a hero out of a blue book, what with the way the white bandage around his head set off his dark good looks. And such a torment burning in his eyes, they whispered. How he must have loved his pretty young wife. The men—those who knew that he was burying all hope at thirty thousand pounds—thought how well he might be grieved to the point of madness.
Jessalyn stood beside him, looking up at him out of gritty, pain-darkened eyes. She saw a face that was all sharp bones and hollow shadows. He was still and drawn deep into himself, his eyes utterly empty and seeing nothing but the coffins... and another failure.
He is flagellating himself with it, Jessalyn thought, like a monk heating his own hack with a knotted rope, until he bleeds and does penance for his sins. She wanted to lean her body against his, to press his head to her breast. To take the whip from his hand and kiss his scarred and bruised fingers one by one. And she was afraid that if she so much as touched his arm in sympathy, he would turn away.
The Reverend Troutbeck spoke of dust returning unto dust, and ashes unto ashes. The rain came down harder now, beating a tattoo on the caskets. Jessalyn's gaze was drawn to the lych-gate, where the hearse waited, where she and Emily had stopped to speak that windy Sunday, the day the primroses had first bloomed. Emily had been so happy that day, laughing, blossoming herself in her pregnancy, and with her newly discovered love for Cornwall. I don't think I shall ever want to leave....
A great sadness swelled within Jessalyn's breast. She swallowed hard, trying to keep it down, but a gulping little cry escaped her. McCady flinched, as if she'd touched him after all.
She lifted her head, seeing him through a wash of tears. His gaze lashed back at her, sun-bright with fury. He spun on his heel and strode away from her and the caskets of his wife and son, his right leg dragging heavily and leaving a groove in the thick green grass.
The pale linen of his shirt shone stark against the tin gray sky. The sea rolled in heavy black waves, tumbling over his boots, breaking into foam.
She sloughed toward him through the wet sand. The rain slashed at the beach, making a rough, purring sound as it stippled and pocked the water. He faced the sea. He had discarded his coat somewhere; his shirt clung to his back, so wet she could see the darkness of his skin underneath. She licked her lips, tasting salt and fear, and spoke his name.
She didn't think he heard, for he stood unmoving still. She shivered, wet and cold in the pouring rain, for she was wrapped only in a delicate cashmere shawl that Emily had given her after the fire. She thought she would leave and instead took another step toward him.
His voice lashed at her, hard and biting, above the sea's raucous, gasping breaths. "You can no longer place any dependence on my playing the part of the honorable gentleman, Miss Letty. From now on, if you know what is good for you, you will stay the bloody hell away from me."
She took another step and laid her cheek against his back.
He whirled, almost stumbling as he took all his weight on his bad leg. He flung out his arm, pointing down the beach. "Go, damn you!"
Tiny tremors shook her legs, and tears burned her eyes. She felt suffocated with yearning. She would not leave him.
His dark hair hung plastered to his head, dripping over the white bandage. Rain ran over the sharp bones of his face. Haunted and slightly wild, his eyes glowed at her. His hand curled into a tight fist, and he drew it back against his chest. "Oh, Christ, Jessa. Please..."
"I love you."
He seized her in a grip that hurt, hauling her up against his hard chest with such force it knocked the breath from her. He lowered his head, smothering her mouth, and the sea slammed and broke around them. The rain poured.
His kiss was rough, frantic... hot. She clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his rigid flesh, while he devoured her lips. He yanked off her poke bonnet, then jerked off her shawl and hurled them onto the rocks. He thrust his fingers through her hair, pulling her chignon loose from its netting and pins. He held her head fast with one hand, while he kneaded her breasts with the other. His fingers tugged and pulled at her nipples through the thin, rain-slick material of her muslin bodice and cotton shift.
He was being too rough and fierce, hurting her, but she didn't care. She had wanted this for so long. She was afraid to move, afraid to make a sound, for fear that he would stop.
He tore his mouth from hers and dragged her down with him onto the wet, foam-laced sand.
He loomed above her. The gold ring in his ear caught a flash of some ethereal light, so that it shimmered like a star caught fast in the dark night of his hair. His eyes were dark and sun-faceted in a world of gray rain. There was no tenderness in them, no mercy in the hard and hungry mouth that seized her lips. Only a deep and terrible need.
She surrendered to his kiss. Not even the crashing roar of rain and sea could drown out the tumult of her heart. Her hands roamed over him, seeking, yet she already knew the shape of him, the taste of him. She had always known these things, even before she knew of him.
A wave broke hard against the beach, dousing them with salty spray. He said something fast and harsh that she didn't understand, as he pushed up her skirt and shift. He gripped her thighs, spreading them. He knelt between her legs, rising above her. His face was so hard, so intent, he looked cruel. He cursed as he wrenched at the flap of his pantaloons, and then his breath left him in a soft, keening sigh. His sex sprang free from the concealing shadows of hair and cloth. Her glazed, unfocused eyes caught but a glimpse before he lowered himself over her again. His fingers probed for the slit in her drawers, and when he found it, he hooked his fingers in the opening and ripped.
She gasped with shock and then arched, gasping again, as he slid his finger deep inside her. He went utterly still, and she seemed to hang suspended with him, in a universe of wondrous feeling, connected only to his hard, burning finger. A wet heat spread in a growing pool from that part of her, as if she were melting down there.
He shuddered, and a harsh, tearing sound erupted from his throat. "God, I have to... Jessa, sweetling, I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't..."
She didn't know what he meant; she was afraid he was going to stop, to pull away from her. The thought was unbearable. She wrapped her arms around his back, her nails gripping at the wet thin linen, holding him tight to her. "Please," she whispered.
He pushed another finger inside her, opening her. She felt a searing pain, and she stiffened against him. Something smooth and hard and hot pushed between her legs, probing her woman's flesh, stretching her impossibly wide.
She knew a moment's fear, and then he drove into her. And she pressed her mouth into his shoulder to smother a cry.
He thrust again, burying himself deeper. She felt the fullness of him; he was thick and hard and throbbing inside her. It hurt, yet there was something else there—a hot, spiraling pressure that went beyond the pain into pleasure. It felt right for him to be so deep within her, to be a part of her.
He moved, pulling almost out of her, then pushing in again, a rough thrust and drag that struck a fire deep within her, like a spark off flint. She clung to him, straining upward, as the pressure within her grew, burning hotter. He pumped his hips, and the breath came from him in harsh, tearing gasps. "Please..." she said again, wanting something more, not knowing what it was.
His head flung back, his eyes clenching shut, his face contorted. He gave one last mighty thrust that seemed to pierce her heart as he shuddered violently, surging long and deep within her.
He collapsed heavily on top of her. She could feel the thudding of his heart and tiny tremors quivering across his chest. She reveled in the crush of him against her, the feel of his weight. Love for him squeezed at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.
Slowly his breathing quieted. He drew out of her and rolled onto his back in the sand, leaving her feeling empty.
The rain poured over her face, into her parted, panting mouth. The sea spilled over her legs, pounding and sucking, in and out, pulsing to the heavy beat of her heart. She sat up. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist, and she pulled them down, suddenly embarrassed.
She dared a glance at him. He sat with one leg bent, his elbow resting on his knee, his face buried in his hand, and his fingers clenching and clenching in his rain-black hair. The words I love you swelled up from within her, pushing against her lips, but she held them back.
He raised his head, and his hand fell, hanging limp. He looked at the tumultuous sea, and she could see his throat move as he swallowed. He turned, searching her face. The only light in the whole world seemed to come from his eyes. "I want you again."
A sigh stretched across her chest, easing out of her. She leaned into him. "Oh, take me again, McCady. Take me again."
His arms came around her, crushing her to him, and his mouth closed over hers in a long, deep kiss that stole her breath.
After an eternity he tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her neck. He planted soft, sighing kisses along her throat, his lips trailing over her chilled, wet skin, and she trembled. He lifted his head. His mouth tightened as he rubbed his thumb over her red and swollen lips. "I was a bloody rutting beast. I hurt you."
He had, but she didn't care. She loved the thought of him being inside her, the intimacy of it. And they said it hurt only the first time.
She smiled, tilting her face up to his, asking without thought or words for another kiss. He traced the shape of her mouth with his tongue, parting her lips. He tasted of the rain and the sea, and of wanting—hot and spicy. Their mouths mated, then parted, only to come back together, again and again, as if each breath must begin and end with the other's lips.
His fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her head back, exposing her neck to his hot, wet mouth. He rubbed his partially open lips against her throbbing pulse. "Ah, God, Jessa, Jessa... you taste like sin. Once started, a man cannot stop." He raised his head, pulling back a little. His eyes burned bright and hot.
With the soft pads of her fingers, she traced the severe line of his mouth. His lips moved beneath her touch, the creases deepening into a sudden, beautiful smile. "Christ, I think it's raining," he said. "And I've got sand in places one doesn't dare mention in polite society. Let's find a bed."
It was dim and damp inside the gatehouse.
He lit a lantern, hooking its handle over a wall peg. The room held little furniture: a scarred and ring-marked table, two ladder-back chairs, and an old wooden bed made up with a brown army blanket and rough huckaback sheets that looked worn but clean. A stack of dry faggots lay next to the swept hearth. The place was freshly scrubbed and smelled faintly of fried bacon and tobacco.
She felt shy and nervous, being alone here with him, knowing what was coming, knowing that he was thinking of it, as she was. "Does someone live here?" she asked.
He was crouched on one knee, laying the fire. His doeskin pantaloons pulled tautly across his hard thighs; his wet shirt clung to the powerful muscles of his back. "No one now," he said. "Duncan slept here at first, until we could fix a place for him up in the hall."
The wood caught with a lick of flame and curl of smoke. He straightened and came toward her, where she stood in the middle of the room. It was ridiculous, but she had to tighten her muscles to keep from running away. There was a roaring in her ears, as if they were still being battered by the rain and the sea. He stopped when only a hand space separated them. So close she could smell his shaving soap and the wet starch in his shirt. And a hot male smell that went with what he had done to her on the beach.
"Take off your clothes," he said. Commanded.
"M-my clothes?" She had not thought about this, that he would want her to undress. She had never bared her body to a man before. Not even Becka had seen her out of her shift. Yet there was a wet stickiness between her legs to remind her of the intimacy she'd already shared with this man.
His fingers spanned her chin, tilting her head to meet his eyes. They caught the light of the fire, glowing like hurricane lamps in the stormy passion of his dark face. "I want to see you naked, Jessalyn."
Her hands trembled as she reached behind her back, working at the hidden laces that fastened her bodice. She was afraid he wouldn't like her body. She was so thin and bony.
She had trouble working loose the tight long sleeves, the wet muslin seemed to cling to her arms. But then the dress slid into a dripping pool around her ankles. She wasn't wearing stays, only a shift and drawers. Drawers that were ripped from front to back so that she could feel cool air bathing those most intimate parts of her body.
His breathing had changed, coming in quick, shallow gasps. "Everything," he said, the word a coarse whisper.
She swallowed hard around the dryness in her throat. She untied the drawstring to her drawers, and they joined her dress on the floor. She pulled the shift over her head, letting it fall from her outstretched lingers. Her wet hair hung in clumps over her shoulders, water running in rivulets over her breasts and belly. The water was cold, yet her skin sizzled. She couldn't look at him.
"I've wanted you since you were sixteen," he said, the words hoarse. "When you were all legs and no tits and with a sunburnt nose and freckles on your cheekbones."
He was staring at her breasts, and she felt a rush of tingling heat spread through her, like swallowing brandy. She looked down. Her nipples stood out hard and round and dark like two pebbles. "They still aren't much to look at."
He breathed a laugh. "Oh, no, there you are most wrong, Miss Letty." His hand trembled slightly as he combed the hair away from her face, following the length of one thick curl where it curved beneath a smooth, upthrust breast, sticking to her wet skin, skin that seemed suddenly to have caught on fire. "As an acknowledged rake I happen to be a connoisseur of women's breasts." He cupped one in his palm, lifting it, and she stifled a moan behind her teeth. "And yours are splendid. All round and golden, as if sprinkled with cinnamon." Together they watched his long, hard fingers, dark against the whiteness of her skin, trace the contours of her pliant, aching flesh, gently teasing the nipple until it seemed to throb and quiver. "I've dreamed about what it would be like to try and lick every cinnamon fleck off with my tongue, one by one."
Her body felt weighted, her skin too hot and tight. Her legs trembled, wanting to sink to the floor. She had to touch him as well. She laid her palms flat against his chest, rubbing them over his wet shirt, marveling at the way his muscles tightened and expanded with his heavy breaths. The way he felt, rugged as the cliffs, yet yielding, too, beneath her hands like the soft black earth. "You are so strong," she said. "So hard."
His head fell forward, and he groaned her name against her hair. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed.
The old rope springs moaned beneath them. The army blanket was rough under her back; every inch of her skin felt flayed, too sensitive to bear so much as a breath. He lay beside her, partially covering her, and his shirt brushed against her breasts, tormenting her nipples. His hand stroked the length of her, and his gaze followed, fire scorching along the path of fire.
"I knew the hair between your legs would be this color," he said. "Like a burning torch." His fingers lightly, lightly touched her there, and she gasped and arched up off the bed, as if he'd lit a fuse, setting off a rocket inside her.
He seized her mouth in a long, fierce kiss, then pulled away from her and sat up. He tugged at his boots, cursing them when they resisted. He yanked his shirt over his head, popping buttons that clattered and rolled on the floor. He stood up. He hadn't bothered with refastening his pantaloons; they gaped open at the waist, revealing a dense triangle of dark curling hair. He stood sideways to her, and she could see plainly how the tight wet doeskin cradled the heavy bulge of his sex. He peeled the wet cloth down over his hips, baring to her fascinated gaze the curved, muscular moon of one buttock... and his swollen member, bursting free. It was thick and ridged with veins, purple-red, almost glistening. Her breath escaped through her parted lips in a tiny, whistling sound.
"Is that a gasp of fear or awe?" He stood, grinning, before her. Blatantly virile and arrogantly aware of it.
Laughter bubbled up and poured out of her, raucous and squeaky as a rusty gate—and dying when she noticed the purple-red weal that curved around his thigh. She reached up and ran her finger along the length of the hard, puckered ridge. "You could have been killed," she said. The thought terrified her. That life was so precarious. That she could lose him. Even the little of him that she had could be lost to her forever.
He removed her hand and brought it to his lips as he eased down onto the bed beside her. He stared at her, and the skin across his cheekbones seemed to tauten, his lips to tighten, as if he were in pain. "Laugh again," he said.
"Why?" He grinned at her, and she giggled. "No one—" She giggled again. "No one can laugh on command. It isn't—" A hooting snort burst out of her, sounding like a dull saw going through wood.
He laughed along with her, smothering his face between her breasts. "God, I love the way you laugh," he said. "I get hard sometimes just hearing you laugh."
She looked down the length of their two bodies, lying side by side: his hard and sun-browned, hers cream pale and softer. At his manhood, lying thick and heavy against her hip. "You're hard right now."
He rose up and rubbed his sex over her belly. "Feel it. This is what you do to me, Jessalyn. Are you pleased with yourself?"
She was rather pleased with herself. And curious about him. She touched his hard length lightly with her fingertips, surprised at the silky slickness of his skin and the burning heat. She felt him shudder, heard his sharp intake of breath.
He took her hand and wrapped it around him. "Hold me. Grip me tight."
He filled her hand. She squeezed him gently, instinctively making a fist and stroking his thick length to the root. He made a harsh sobbing sound, like an animal in pain.
She let go of him. "Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to hurt you."
He laughed, nuzzling her neck. "Ah, Christ, no, you didn't hurt me. That felt so good, so good...."
For one long suspended breath out of time, he stared at her, as if etching her face into his memory. Then he lowered his head and licked the curve of her breast where it swelled beneath her arm. His tongue traced the shape of it, stroking underneath, following the gentle upward slope to the quivering peak and he sucked it deep into his mouth.
Dear life...
She had never felt anything like this before. Oh, God, he had her nipple in her mouth, suckling on it like a babe. She didn't know men did this; it was wicked, it was wonderful, Fireworks shot off in dizzying whirls inside her, falling and dying into a throbbing heat low in her womb.
He lathed slick, hot kisses all over her breasts and down her belly, sucking at places she didn't even know she had. His long hair brushed her skin, tickling, igniting little gorse fires. His breath bathed her in fiery gusts. His back trembled and grew taut and slick with sweat beneath her roaming hands.
She almost screamed when he palmed her mound. His fingers tangled in the red nest of hair, tracing the grooves of her body where her legs joined. He pushed a finger deep inside her, then pulled it out, in and out, in and out, in long, rhythmic thrusts that seemed to match the wild pumping of her heart. With the pad of his thumb he stroked the lips of her sex, pushing upward, touching some exquisitely sensitive place deep inside her that stopped her heart. Her hands clawed at the blanket; her head thrashed. She undulated her hips, pumping them against his stroking, probing fingers as the most terrible pressure built inside her. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop and whimpered instead. Dear life... she was going to die if he didn't stop. She arched her back, bucking hard against his hand, begging for, begging for, begging...
Her chest heaved with the effort to breathe. His mouth was on hers, kissing her. He spoke into her. "Not yet, Jessa. Not yet..."
And then she felt his burning hardness probing at the wet, quivering place where his fingers had been.
His hands slid beneath her bottom, raising her hips. She felt a tiny tremor of fear now, for it had hurt so the last time. He entered her slowly, pushing into her inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
"Don't move," he said though his clenched teeth. "Wait... a moment..." His head bowed, his hair lapping at her breasts, as he drew in short, panting breaths. "God, you are so tight. Wet and hot, like a mouth."
A deep, tearing moan escaped him as he settled deeper. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper still. He began to move within her. He flattened his palm against her stomach, his fingers inching down, finding her in the tight tangle of red curls, rubbing her in rhythm with his pounding thrusts. The pleasure was so exquisite it raised a scream in the back of her throat. The old rope springs squeaked and groaned, and the wooden bedstead knocked against the wall, pounding, pounding, and she couldn't bear it, couldn't bear it, couldn't—
She exploded inside, shuddering, shattering, dying....
She awoke to the smell of him. But when she stretched out her hand, the space beside her was empty and cold.
She pressed her face into the pillow, afraid to open her eyes and discover she was alone. But then she heard a soft sound, like a sigh, and slowly she turned her head.
The fire, too long ignored, had gone out. There was no light in the room except for a muted dawn filtering through the single window. He stood, a black silhouette before it, his back to her. McCady Trelawny, this dark-souled man, whom she loved with all the depth and power of her woman's heart.
She watched him, afraid to breathe. For one afternoon and a night he had been hers, his rough and tender touch, his hungry kisses, his man's sex buried deep inside her. She had always known that by giving him her body, she would be giving him the power to hurt her beyond measure. Yet she had never been able to change what was in her heart: She loved him so much. Beyond pride and shame and regret.
He must have felt her eyes on him, for he stiffened and turned. His dark angel's face looked fiercely beautiful in the diffused light and as remote as the stars.
He took a step toward her, then stopped. He was dressed, and she felt suddenly shy in her own nakedness, vulnerable. She pulled the sheet over her breasts. "I'm leaving for London this morning," he said.
Pain slammed into her like a fisted blow. She shut her eyes to hide the rush of tears and swallowed down rising sobs. She would not cry. Nor would she ask him why, but he answered her as if she had.
"Because I must make one last, useless, wasted effort at trying to save my railway company. Because I have business in London anyway that must be seen to before the August trials. And because"—his breath caught, and naked pain flashed across his face—"because I want you so bloody badly I can scarcely breathe when you're near me, so how could I possibly go on living in the same house without touching you?"
She straightened her legs and pushed herself up onto her elbows. There was a burning soreness between her thighs. And an odd pulsing deep within her belly, as if the shudders and tremors that he had wrenched from her again and again throughout the night lingered in her still, echoing.
"I shouldn't want to live at all if you weren't here to touch me."
"Jessalyn... you don't understand." There was a faintly bitter tilt to his mouth. Her chest tightened with panic, cutting off her breath. She was failing him, losing him, and she didn't know what to do to stop it, what it was that he wanted from her. "I'm done for, dished up, cut all to pieces," he went on, the words mocking, but the pain lingering in his eyes. "I don't know why it is that I have been able to bed other women and walk away from them without a moment's thought. But with you I've always... Ah, hell, Jessalyn, I keep trying not to hurt you, and all I seem to do is bring you pain. Within six weeks I'm likely to be carted off to debtor's prison. I cannot take you down into ruin with me."
Her voice was hoarse from the pain in her throat. "And if I don't care what becomes of me as long as we're together?"
He came to her. He stood above her, looking down at her, and his eyes seemed to penetrate through all the effort she was making not to weep, not to beg, penetrating into her soul. "I care," he said in a ragged voice.
He leaned over to brush a kiss past her mouth, so light and fast she barely felt it. Until afterward, and even then it was but the lingering trace of a memory on her lips.
"I love you," she said. But by then she was speaking to an empty room.