Chapter 11 #3
“Madam, I spoke with complete honesty,” he assured her.
Sabrina looked away from him, startled that just the look in his eyes could cause such a rush of sensation within her. Yet even as the warmth of the wine and his gaze enfolded her, the front door was suddenly flung open, then slammed again against the wind.
“Hello! Sloan? Sloan, are you here? I’d heard you had returned…”
To Sabrina’s amazement, a woman came walking into Sloan’s quarters, sweeping off her cloak and spraying snowflakes about as she did so.
She was startlingly beautiful. Her hair was nearly black, her skin was a perfect ivory, and her eyes were sheer emerald green.
She was elegantly slim, but her breasts looked as if they might spill out of her bodice.
Sabrina realized that the woman was older than herself by perhaps ten years, yet those years had done nothing to dim her elegance and beauty.
From the outer room, the woman had apparently noticed Sloan in the tub, but she had not seen Sabrina. Not yet.
“Sloan, I’m so grateful that you’ve returned. I worry myself sick every time you go out, and naturally I’ve missed you so…oh!”
She came to a dead halt in the archway, staring from Sloan in the tub to Sabrina where she, too, had come to a dead halt, her brush halfway through her hair.
“I—I—” The woman stared at Sloan, then at Sabrina; then her eyes were riveted back on Sloan.
“My God, then it’s true—you are married!
” she exclaimed. Then she quickly seemed to recover herself.
“I am sorry. Do excuse me, my dear,” she said, addressing Sabrina.
“I—I must confess, I didn’t believe what I’d heard.
But then…she’s a charming chi—girl, Sloan, absolutely charming. Do excuse me, both of you.”
Sabrina was simply too stunned to move. Sloan wasn’t. He dragged his towel into the tub, heedless that he soaked it as he wrapped it around himself while he rose from the water.
“Hello, Marlene. This is unexpected.”
“It is? Oh!” She glanced at Sabrina. “Of course.”
“I have married. This is my wife, Sabrina. Sabrina, Marlene Howard is the daughter of a colonel I served with during the war, and the widow of Congressman Howard of Delaware, who passed away a few months ago. She is also the sister of Captain Jones of the Seventh.”
“How do you do,” Marlene said graciously. “What a pleasure, what a rare pleasure indeed. Well, excuse me. Sabrina, lovely to meet you. You will enjoy the Seventh. Sloan, it’s so good to see you—alive and well.”
She turned elegantly about, resettling her cape around her shoulders. A minute later, she was gone; the door closed in her wake.
“I can’t imagine why I didn’t think to bolt the damned door,” Sloan muttered.
“I can’t imagine why anyone who wasn’t welcome at all times would just come in without knocking,” Sabrina said angrily.
Sloan stared at her; she could hear the grate of his teeth.
“She seemed so surprised that you were surprised. Was she unexpected!” she demanded sweetly.
“Don’t be an idiot, Sabrina—”
“Let’s see—she just walks into your private quarters without being asked, and I’m the idiot.”
“I have a past, Sabrina. That’s been established from the beginning.”
She didn’t know why she was so hurt, but it was making her feel completely unreasonable. The woman who had just walked in was trouble—most evidently.
“A very recent past,” she commented.
“Well, now, I wasn’t married until I went to Scotland, was I?”
“But you’ve been back here—”
“I made arrangements with Raleigh to see that my quarters were prepared for a wife; I had to ride out almost immediately. And I won’t sit here making explanations for events in my life that occurred before I was married.”
“This woman—”
“If Marlene didn’t know that I had married and was bringing back a wife, she’s the only damned person in the fort who wasn’t aware of the situation.”
“But she must be a very good—friend.”
“She isn’t a friend at all.”
“Oh?”
“She’s an old acquaintance.”
“An old acquaintance!”
“You’re going to argue about this tonight?” he demanded, stepping from the tub. Dripping water, he knotted the towel and stood in front of her before the fire.
“I’m not arguing; I’m stating the facts as I see them.
I’m pointing out these facts so that you can see yourself that our marriage is ridiculous and makes no sense whatsoever,” she told him, wrenching her brush through her hair with a vengeance.
She tried not to look at him. She was at eye level with his stomach, watching muscles ripple with his anger.
She wished she didn’t feel tempted to touch him.
“Well, as I see the situation, the marriage took place, and that’s that, and you keep creating arguments out of nothing.”
“Out of nothing?”
She stood, managing not to touch him, not even to brush his body, and turned away. “I’ve no intention of arguing,” she informed him coolly. “I’d just as soon be left alone for the time, however. Surely, you were missed. Perhaps you could go spend the evening with friends.”
She started walking smoothly from the bedroom area, her gait not too slow, not too swift, just…regal.
She made it to the archway before he was behind her, catching her upper arm, spinning her around. “I have a past. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you use it against the future.”
“Let go of me, Sloan. Don’t you dare act like this.”
“I married you. And I want a wife, and a family.”
“Not tonight.”
“Yes, tonight. Most importantly, tonight!” he told her firmly.
“Sloan, you’ve decided you want a family; perhaps I haven’t come to the same decision. Let me remind you once again—which does appear so obvious now!—that there do seem to be other women who would far more willingly take on the role of mate in your life!”
He stared hard at her, smiling slowly. His eyes glittered, but she wasn’t at all sure whether he was incredibly amused or incredibly angry.
“I don’t want other women. I want you.”
“But only because you married me.”
“Well, you are my wife.”
“But—”
“Still, I want you for the gentle words you so endlessly rain down upon me. For each tender touch you brush upon me.”
“Sloan, quit mocking me—”
She broke off with a gasp because she was swept off her feet, and the breath was knocked out of her as she landed on the mattress.
He was down with her, with his weight seeming to bear her deeper into the softness, and she was powerless to rise.
He braced his arms on either side of her, staring down into her eyes.
“We are married. And I want you for the fire that burns so sweetly within you, even though you try to fight me whenever I go about setting that fire. I want you because you are an obsession, and I will not let you go.”
“Have you been so passionate with all your mistresses?” she whispered, dismayed to feel such a depth of jealousy.
“I have never been so passionate. And I have never had a mistress in this bed, you may rest assured.”
She closed her eyes, suddenly wishing that she could believe him, and dismayed and angered by the force of the emotions she was feeling. She was as angry with herself as she was with him, because she was surprised to realize that she really did want to be here, sleep here, feel him with her.
He didn’t touch her lips.
She felt his mouth pressing against the pulse at her throat, felt his hands parting her robe. She lay perfectly still, swallowing, trying very hard not to want…
His towel slid away from his lower body. She felt the rough texture of his legs, the pressure of his hips, his groin. His lips teased, caressing her flesh.
She didn’t dare breathe.
His fingers brushed over her body, across her breasts, along her hips, against her thighs.
She kept her eyes closed, so very determined to remain still.
He’d admitted to his past. And now his past was making itself felt in their present, and she couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t angry—or hurt.
Nor could she dare believe in a man who had married her only because she had been expecting his child.
His tongue slipped around her breast, teased the nipple.
His mouth fastened there while his fingers slowly stroked down the length of her body.
His kisses teased at her pulse, her breast, down into her navel.
She bit her lip and remained still, her eyes tightly closed.
His palm pressed lower against her abdomen, his hand slipped between her legs.
His weight pressed them apart, and she braced herself, but…
His kiss fell against her kneecap, her calf, her ankle.
The softest stroke of his fingers flew over her limbs, along her inner thigh.
His lips followed. She tensed, feeling a burning at her center long before the hot fire of his caress fell intimately against her, and no strength of will on her part could keep her from crying out.
Protesting…raking her fingers through his hair, over his shoulders, until she was breathless, until no words would come to her, until she was writhing with wild desperation, wanting him…
Having him. Then his mouth seized hers, plundering with a strange, sweet violence that matched the taut rhythm of his body. Her fingers fell upon his shoulders, stroked down his back, curled around his arms…
Pushing him…
Holding him…
Clinging to him.
She wanted to stop the wild flames lapping so voraciously through her…and yet she wanted to feel them more and more; she wanted to reach that pinnacle, the overwhelming sweetness that could be savored at the very peak, oh, God, if she just didn’t know how good it could feel…
She cried out despite herself, shaken violently with the force of her climax. Her erratic trembling seemed to precipitate a fierce, ragged explosion within his taut body that seemed to spill liquid sunshine into her.
He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing it from her face. His eyes were on hers. His lips brushed hers, and there was tenderness along with the dark, sensual laughter in his eyes. She expected some gentle words, some promise or assurance.
“You are incredibly stubborn,” he told her. “But I do thank God…fire does burn beneath your ice.”
She frowned instantly, causing his amusement to become outright laughter. His laughter, when she felt so very shaken, infuriated her. She slammed her hands against his chest in raw fury, which only entertained him more.
“You’re offended?” he mocked.
“Indeed, I am offended to be such a source of amusement for you, you bastard!” she charged him, pummeling against him. She caught his jaw, and for a moment she was frightened of retaliation, and she went very still.
He merely rubbed it, as if surprised by the power of her punch—and taught a lesson by it.
His amusement faded. “I am that,” he told her very seriously. “I am that!”
He rose, heedless of his abandoned towel—and, so it seemed, of her. Without looking back, he pulled a blue woolen robe from a hook by the bed, slipping into it and starting through the archway.
“Sloan!”
She startled herself, calling his name. But he turned back to her. “I’m sorry.”
“For hitting me?”
“No, you deserved that. I’m sorry for what I said.”
He smiled slightly, but then inclined his head.
“I’m sorry, too,” he murmured gravely.
She sat up in bed, gnawing into her lower lip, feeling the strangest sense of desolation. He was sorry. For what? That he was a bastard? That they had made love? Or that their entire relationship had come about?
She lay down, and to her amazement, tears stung her eyes. She didn’t know what she wanted at all anymore.
Except…
His warmth.
It seemed that she had once had it—and pushed it away. And there were others who might well want it, too.
She reminded herself that she wanted an annulment; she wanted to live in the East. She wanted to laugh and dance and be carefree, to attend parties, to come and go as she pleased. She didn’t want to live in the midst of warfare and bloodshed. Afraid…
For Sloan.
She closed her eyes and stayed in bed. Pride wouldn’t allow her to rise or to go to him.
Sitting out at his desk, Sloan folded his hands as if he were about to pray and tapped his fingers against his chin.
He should let her go.
He couldn’t.
He could touch her; he could reach her.
Or could he? he mocked himself. Maybe she would always crave her freedom. And maybe, every time he made love to her, he would, in a way, be forcing her.
He ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly bone-weary.
Not yet! He couldn’t let her go. Not yet!
He pushed his resolve to the back of his mind, and he turned his attention to the correspondence that had disturbed him so deeply when he had first read it.