He walked around the cemetery at last. Through the foliage he could see the summer cottage. Like the main house, it seriously needed paint.
He came around the front. The door was closed but not locked and he came through it. There was a main room with a large fireplace.
With a smile he wondered if the cottage hadn’t been used frequently in winter. He could just imagine how it would feel being here, a blaze snapping warmly from
the hearth, cold winds blowing beyond, and a landscape carpeted in snow.
He walked through the room, not intentionally coming in quietly.
But Christa hadn’t heard him. She was curled on a green brocade-covered lounge that looked out over large windows with a river view. The river rolled by, dark today, but enchanting. Its color, its slight turbulence, warned that fall was nearly upon them and winter was coming.
Some sound or instinct alerted her to his presence, for she turned, somewhat alarmed.
Women, he thought, didn’t look good when they cried. Their eyes usually got all puffy and their faces became a blotchy red.
But not so with Christa!
Her cheeks were damp and flushed and her eyes remained crystal with the wetness of her tears. But as she stared at him she brushed her hands over her cheeks, and the wet glimmer of tears became that of defiance. He’d never seen eyes more vividly, beautifully blue. He’d been so sorry, so touched by the pain that she had been feeling.
But seeing the mercury-quick change in her, he felt his resolve concerning her stiffen.
Her pride was greater than any emotion within her heart.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
He lifted his hands. “Have I entered some sacred domain?” he asked.
She turned back around, staring at the river. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s a cottage on the grounds, nothing more.”
He remained behind her in silence. His presence must have disturbed her though, for she was quickly up, swinging around to meet him as if she feared to have him at her back. She stared at him, and he must
have betrayed some surprise at her movement, for she flushed slightly and strode toward the mantel. Her feet moved silently over the flooring. There was a handsome oilcloth on the floor, painted to look like marble. It was old and fraying now, but it had once been grand. Over that, before the hearth itself, was a rich stretch of fur rug, warm and very inviting. Christa was glancing at the fur, too, he saw. She caught his gaze, then turned away very quickly.
“I think I know why you’re doing this,” she said. She was suddenly very prim, her hands folded before her, her eyes steady on his.
He took up a military “at ease” stance, legs slightly apart, his hands together at his back. “Oh?” he said politely. “And what am I doing?”
“Making me come with you.”
“Why?”
She waved a hand in the air, unable to continue meeting his eyes. “It has something to do with Daniel and Callie. I believe you’re trying to get even with him in some way.” He was dead silent, and she continued in a sudden rush, “For taking Callie from Maryland. Well, for what happened between them in Maryland, and for taking her away. Perhaps you’re not even aware of it. But if you stop to think—”
“If I stopped too long to think,” he interrupted her at last, struggling to keep a cap on his rising temper, “I’d be tempted to wring your neck. Then your brothers would be obliged to come out and shoot me, but that’s all right, my love, we’d expire in marital bliss!”
She didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed and she stared him down in her very regal manner. “I didn’t think that you’d begin to understand. I—”
She broke off because he was striding across the room to her. He caught hold of her elbows, lifting her, swirling her around.
“Let’s get this straight right now, Christa. I said everything
I had to say to your brother about Callie back then, but if you want to know something, my love, I’ll tell you. Once I met him, I never felt much bitterness or anger toward your brother. It was too painfully clear that he was very much in love with Callie, and so damned obvious that Callie was in love with him. That makes up for a hell of a lot of sins, Christa. And just for the record, I’m not a Cameron. I have faltered and fallen upon occasion. But whether you believe it or not, we heathen Yanks raised in the Maryland farm country were brought up with a certain code of ethics too. I’d never use any animosity I had against Daniel against you in any way.”
“Then—”
“No, no, no, hear me out. My turn, my way. This is between us, Christa.”
“I see,” she said coolly, staring at her arms where he touched her with a scornful command that he release her in her eyes. “All your animosity is strictly toward me.”
He released her. He’d break a bone if he didn’t.
“This isn’t hallowed ground!” he told her.
Her lashes fluttered. She started to turn away. He grasped her back with a force that sent her spinning hard against him. “This is why you’re coming with me!” he said sharply. He did what he’d been itching to do since he’d first seen her. He raked his fingers through the soft wealth of her hair, and kissed her. Touched those lips that were so quick to curl against him with his own. Hunger and dreams bubbled to the surface. He kissed her hard, ruthlessly, determinedly. Tasted the sweetness of her mouth, the mold of her lips, the very indefinable femininity about her that was so very elusive and so very beautiful and seductive.
Perhaps he took her by surprise. Perhaps he had been so forceful so that he left her no room to protest. A single sound escaped her; her arms rose between
them, falling against his chest once, and then no more. His arms encircled her while his lips molded to hers. He sank down to the ground with her.
They were upon the fur.
He’d never meant to do this. To disappear such a length of time, then return and take his unwilling bride on a cottage floor.
But he continually discovered himself doing things he didn’t intend in the least with her.
Her lips were parted to his. Perhaps she was not so willing a participant in the kiss, but she did not deny it. She made no effort to twist from him. He kissed her and kissed her, and her breath came too quickly and her heart hammered. When he brought her down, her arms laced around his neck. To keep her from falling, of course. But still, there was no protest.
She was laid down upon the floor, her hair spread across it, ebony blue. He leaned over her, aware of her eyes again and the sweeping richness of her black lashes. He stretched out beside her, cupping her breast beneath the fabric of her gown. Her lashes fell, her cheeks found color. He covered her mouth with his own once again, his hand tugging upon her skirt and petticoat. Damn women. They wore so much clothing. He was impeded further by the lacy pantalets she wore, but he impatiently found the tie to the garment and freed it. His palms moved over the naked flesh of her belly. He massaged it and slipped his fingers between her legs.
He heard the first rumble of sound from deep within her throat and ignored it. Touching her, feeling the silky hair of her triangle, the tender, damp flesh of her sex, added fuel to a fire that had tormented him all the time that he had spent away from her. He had sworn it would be hell. It was indeed his own hell, for he burned in it, wanting her. Now the flames were flaming to a peak. He wedged his weight between her thighs, fumbling
quickly with his cavalry trousers. Some sense of sanity within him cautioned him that she was still new at this game, and not exactly an avid player—no matter the torment of his own desire. He touched her again, seeking erotic zones to tease, to arouse. To his surprise he was at the least rewarded with a startled gasp. He rotated his touch, moving more deeply inside her. She tried to clench her thighs against him but his body cleanly divided them and she was certainly at his mercy. Another sound escaped her as she felt the first thrust of his sex, just at the very vulnerable portals of her own. He could feel the charge and friction, the heat of his own desire. Her fingers bit into his blue-clad shoulders, she buried her face against his neck. He lifted his hips and thrust deeply and cleanly within her, feeling her arms tighten about him as he did so. He expected a cry, of pain or of protest. No sound escaped her. Slow! he warned himself. And he tried. But the dreams blended with reality. The sweetness of her scent pervaded his blood. The hunger he had lived with since he had left her gnawed with a burning ache for fulfillment. The flesh of her buttocks and thighs was like satin beneath his touch, and being within her, clothed and sheathed by the hot liquid heat of her body, touched off depths of desire he had scarcely known existed. As unwilling a bride as Christa might be, she was still, as she so often said herself, a Cameron. And her passions were all Cameron, wild and exciting. Whether she meant to give to him or not, she did. Perhaps she merely rode the storm. As the intensity of his need rose in a sweet and merciless spiral, he locked her into his embrace and rhythm. He forced her hips into a liquid smooth undulation. He swept her into his tempest, until it burst upon him, wonderful and volatile. He drifted downward, amazed at the sensations she created, at just how damned good it was to have
her. Nothing had ever seemed quite so fierce or quite so sweet before.
Imagine! he mocked himself, if she were just willing!
She was quiet, breathing hard, her eyes downcast. She tried, which was futile with him still half atop her, to straighten her knees and bring down her skirts.
He bit his lip, rolling from her. He’d done well, he taunted himself. Let’s see, he’d invaded her place of peace, then taken her nearly fully clothed on the very floor of her sanctuary. Now she was trying to cover a slim, shapely leg and to his annoyance, he was discovering that he could be aroused again himself by just such a sight.
Jenny would have taken a look at herself and giggled. And she would have whispered in his ear. “Well, that was fun, but really, Jeremy, shouldn’t we shed our clothing this time?”
But, no! This was Christa, with her flaming blue eyes and midnight hair. And the sweet passion that simmered beneath everything, driving him to distraction. Making him want her more than he had ever wanted Jenny.
No.
Yes.
But denying him still.
She was uncomfortable, he realized. And she’d been in love once, yes. But she’d never married her Reb, never taken a chance on learning what it was to be in love and make love.
He rose, adjusting his trousers. He walked to the back window and looked out over the river before gazing back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he told her quietly. It took some effort.
She didn’t answer him. She was sitting up, her black hair a fall over her face, hiding her eyes. She was still trying to straighten out her attire. Her shoulders were squared. “It’s really to be expected—” she began.
In that voice of hers. In that regal southern belle voice that set his nerves on edge.
He was back beside her in a number of seconds. He didn’t touch her, but he hunkered down before her furiously. “All right, Christa, I’m not sorry. I’m not in the least damned sorry. You’re my wife. This is what married people do!”
“Actually, most married people are completely polite and respectful of one another,” she said smoothly, tossing back that mountain of hair. “They don’t just couple like—”
“Jesu! Christa, you cannot be so blind! What do you think Daniel and Callie were so excited about this morning, sharing a cup of tea? Come, my love. Where do you think that damned fur came from in the first place?” He inclined his head toward the fireplace and the fur rug before it.
She was gracefully on her feet in seconds. “So why bother to apologize?”
He stood, hands on his hips, facing her. “I won’t do so ever again, Christa, I promise.” He smiled icily, remembering her secret torrent of tears over the fact that she was to come with him. He hadn’t the least control over the malicious twinge that came to him when he reached for her, pulling her close once again. “Never. And so much—truly decadent, by your standards—lies before us. There is the dirt on the floor of a soldier’s tent, and there’s the dirt of the wide open fields! There are streams galore out there, abandoned Indian dwellings, wonderful, savage places to couple just like a pair of wild animals! And with my willing, imaginative bride, I just can’t wait!”
She jerked her hand free. Her chin was high, her eyes blazing. “If you’re trying to shock or frighten me, Jeremy, you can go to hell. I survived the war. And I’ll survive you. I—”
“Yes, you are a survivor! No one fights so damned
well, Christa. Had you just been in the damned field, Grant would have never stood a chance of taking the Rebs. I’m sure the goddamned Indians would be quaking in their buckskins if they knew you were coming.”
She threw back her full mane of ebony hair, her eyes sizzling, her hands on her hips, the whole of her trembling. Actually, he’d never seen her quite so vital, so passionate, so wild.
So beautiful, sensual, and appealing.
“You sorry excuse for humanity!” she lashed out. “You can just stop it, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he taunted. “Call in big brother? Tear me limb from limb?”
A cry of fury brought her flying across the room against him. He had goaded her on, and still, he hadn’t quite been ready for her. She nearly knocked him flat. He caught his balance just in time. He caught her fingers just seconds before she could bring her nails raking across his face.
Husky laughter spilled from him then, even though he gave himself an inward warning. She was someone to reckon with.
“Christa—”
“Let go of me!” She kicked him hard, right in the shin. It hurt like hell.
“Christa!” He jerked her around so that her back was flat against his chest and her arms were tightly locked against his hold over her breast. She tried to bite him. He wrenched harder on his hold and she went dead still, rigid as steel.
“Don’t raise a hand against me. And no more kicking. Or biting.”
She remained still. And trembling. She tossed back her head. “Or what?” she whispered vehemently in turn.
He lowered his mouth against her ear. “Or I’ll make you sorry, I promise.”