Authors: Margaret Tanner
In bed she pulled the covers up to her chin and lay with her eyes tightly shut. As the minutes ticked by, fear and expectancy vied with each other for supremacy.
For a big man he moved quietly. Only when he lifted the bedclothes to climb in did she acknowledge his presence.
“I've waited weeks for this moment, Jo.”
He dragged her into his arms. His body felt hard, well muscled and naked. She stiffened away.
“No.” She struggled to push herself free.
“Don't fight me,” he growled. “You want me as badly as I want you.”
She wanted to shout a denial, but couldn’t. She hated the fact, but from the first moment she clapped eyes on him, he stirred her as no other man had ever done. It was sinful.
His breath, smelling slightly of alcohol, warmed her cheek. His mouth covered hers, hesitant, almost gentle at first, and God help her, she liked the taste of it. Although her brain kept screaming at her to push him away, her treacherous mouth opened to receive his probing tongue. Her tongue entwined with his and started a frenzied, twisting dance of love. Not love, only lust, glorious, uninhibited lust a feeling as old as time.
His fingers fumbled with the ties of her nightgown, until, with an impatient curse, he wrenched the top open. His mouth closed over one nipple while his fingers laved the other until it hardened under his skilled tutelage. When he buried his face in the soft valley between her breasts her fingers somehow tangled in his hair.
“I want you so bad it’s killing me,” he groaned.
She felt his fingers caressing her pubic hair, playing with the curls, before burrowing under the soft plump lips to find her feminine bud. It fluttered open at his touch and as he stroked it, a swirling sensation built up in the deepest recesses of her stomach. She was fever hot, demented with need. His fingers frantically worked her now. His breath came out in short, labored pants.
He entered her in one strong, sure thrust. His hard silken length slid into her love canal, and her aroused flesh closed around, him drawing him in deeper and deeper. She inhaled the scent of his arousal or maybe it was her own. He muttered something as the veil guarding her virginity impeded his progress. There was only a small stab of pain as he gently eased his way through. Once the feat was accomplished, he completely lost control. Rearing back, he thrust, hard and deep, as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
Their carnal need proved shocking in its intensity, its savagery. Raw, primitively overwhelming, it consumed them. They rocked together, each giving, each taking. She instinctively knew how to answer Luke’s mastery, how to stoke his passion over and over, until finally with a feral growl he exploded inside her.
The aching in his groin subsided once he reached his shattering climax. He couldn’t think straight. Jo, the woman responsible for his brother’s death, had taken him to paradise. He hated the fact, that within minutes his desire rampaged out of control again. No-one like her had ever crossed his path before. Goddess and vamp formed into one. He mounted her, again and again, raging against his desperate, continuing need for her. Somehow he sensed that she felt the same way. Hating him, hating herself for wanting him so badly. Finally, when his desire was slaked, he rolled away and fell asleep.
She lay there, exhausted but satiated, loathing her treacherous body for responding to his hard, lethal manhood. In the cold light of day, she regretted what she had let him do. What she had let him take from her tonight in the name of lust when it should have been love. She blinked back tears because she had lost what could be taken only once.
She felt as if she had barely closed her eyes when the feel of his hands and lips on her bare flesh woke her and desire surged through her, as primitive and desperate as it had been last night.
“Ah, did I disturb you, my wild beauty?”
His hands were gentle, his lips persuasive as they moved against hers in a tantalizing caress. When he brought her over with him and held her against his side, she rested her head against his shoulder, her cheek brushing against his smooth, hot skin.
“It can be good between us,” he whispered into her hair.
Chapter Eight
Jo awoke next morning to the rattle of a breakfast tray and Lizzie's cheerful greeting. About to raise herself, she remembered her state of undress and clutched at the bed sheet. Blood raced into her cheeks, as the girl silently handed her the nightgown Luke had so carelessly discarded.
“Leave the tray, thank you.” Embarrassment surged through her at the maid's knowing giggle.
“Will I draw a bath for you, Miss Jo?”
“Give me twenty minutes or so, thank you.” She lowered her eyes to hide her turmoil. “Has Mr. Campton breakfasted yet?”
“He ate hours ago. It's ten o'clock now.”
“Ten o’clock!”
“Yes. He left strict instructions for you not to be woken. You're to do as you please, but not leave the property. He'll be taking dinner with you this evening,” she recited in parrot fashion.
The maid left and Jo slipped the nightgown over her head before starting on breakfast. Two lightly boiled eggs, toast and marmalade, plus a small pot of tea, all set out with dainty lace serviettes on a beautifully engraved silver tray.
Sunlight edging around the drawn curtains cheered her, buoying her spirit and re-kindling her strength and independence. He probably thought he had her in his power now. That she would be submissive to him and wouldn’t be able to live without his passion. She acknowledged this, but would never tell him. She would deprive him of his ultimate victory, her total subjugation. Just because her treacherous body had betrayed her didn’t mean she had given up the fight.
Standing in front of the mirror waiting for the maid to return, she surveyed herself carefully. Her lips were slightly swollen from his fierce kisses, her nipples over sensitive otherwise there were no outward signs of her night of carnal passion. Her innocence lost forever now, plundered by a man who would never love her.
“I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me broken and cowered,” she muttered. Her body he could take for his own, she didn’t have the willpower to stop him, but her spirit would never belong to him.
The maid came in and filled the bathtub. Jo waved Lizzie away. She was too proud to let anyone see her naked before she washed off the blood of lost virginity that now stained her thighs. Regardless of his orders, she would ride over to see Fiona.
With a blue silk dressing gown covering her nakedness, she returned to the bedroom to find the bed already made. A quick flip through the wardrobe showed gowns for every occasion, even a riding outfit, only suitable if one rode sidesaddle, something she no longer did.
Dressed in breeches and a cotton shirt that she had brought with her, and with her hair tied back with a ribbon, she trudged into the kitchen. She was aching in muscles she didn’t even know she had before.
Mrs. Osborne pursed her lips when Jo announced her plans to see Fiona.
“Mr. Campton won't like it, Miss Jo. He left strict instructions for you to stay here.”
“I'm sorry. I'll tell him you gave me his orders.”
“Please.” Mrs. Osborne said. “Not in front of the kitchen staff.”
“All right.” She backed out of the door and stood in the yard, leaving the housekeeper no other option but to follow.
“I'm sorry for embarrassing you in the kitchen, Mrs. Osborne, but regardless of what the big boss says, I'm going over to see my sister-in-law.” She touched the woman's arm. “You can see I have to. Fiona's not used to being on her own, there's little Lucy and another baby on the way. I have to make sure they're all right. Men don't understand how it is for women, especially the helpless, butterfly types like my sister-in-law. And recently bereaved.” She caught the housekeeper's sympathy and played on it like a string quartet. “There’s hardly any food in the house, we lived on porridge and rabbits for the last few days.”
Mrs. Osborne’s hand flew to her face in shock.
“Why do you think I came here? We were practically starving, threatened with eviction by the high and mighty Luke Campton.”
“Mr. Campton is a hard man, but he wouldn't do anything so cruel.”
“He did.” She touched the housekeeper's hand. “He forced me to come here by making things so bad for us I had no other choice.”
“You're a brave, spirited girl, Miss Jo. I only hope he realizes this before it's too late.”
Too late for what? Jo nearly said and she left the room. Luke’s only interest in her was purely carnal regardless of what the housekeeper thought. He had ruined her chance of finding happiness with any other man, but she would never let him know, or his victory would be complete.
A young groom saddled a horse for her. She refused to ride any of the thoroughbreds, choosing an ordinary work mount. Fancy horses and saddles were not for Jo Saunders.
She trotted around to the kitchen to pick up a few items of food to take over to Fiona. Flour, sugar, tea, raisins, some cold turkey, fruit, vegetables and bread, without a qualm she filled two canvas bags, much to the astonishment of the kitchen staff. When Cook made to protest, Mrs. Osborne waved her to silence.
Luke would be furious, but it gave her a perverse kind of pleasure to defy his orders and put some power into her own hands.
The hot sun beat down mercilessly as she rode past well-stocked paddocks. Unshorn sheep and prime beef, grazed on well-kept pastures. At the thought of their two house cows, bitterness almost engulfed her. Everything about the property, from the fencing to the outbuildings, appeared well maintained. No wonder Kangaroo Gully employed such a large workforce.
Fiona was pegging washing on the line when Jo rode into the yard. She dropped the pegs and ran towards her. She looked pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.
“Jo! Jo! I missed you so much. You've come back.” Fiona’s gaze fell on the two bulging bags slung across the saddle.
“I'm only here for a couple of hours. Are you going to invite me inside? I've brought a few things with me.” She dismounted and lifted the bags to the ground. “I'll see to the horse first.”
Once the horse was tethered in the shade, Jo headed back to the homestead. Fiona carried the bags inside, like an excited child, eagerly sorting through the contents.
“I'll make tea, the kettle's nearly boiling. We'll have turkey sandwiches.” Fiona set to work, chattering excitedly about Lucy pronouncing several new words. As if suddenly remembering where Jo had been, the spate of chatter died away.
“Last night, how was it?”
“Bearable,” she lied, and now with her passion cooled she couldn’t believe that she had responded to Luke in such a wanton fashion.
“I'm sorry. You did it for Lucy and me.” Tears filled Fiona’s eyes.
I'm the one who should be crying. She bit her lip to stop herself uttering the words.
Fiona plied her with tea and sandwiches, not letting her do a thing, as if she was trying to make up for what happened last night. If only she knew.
“I'm not having a baby after all, I found out last night.” Fiona patted her stomach.
“What a relief, one less mouth to feed.”
“It's strange, I’m glad, yet in some ways sad, a son would have been nice. I could have named him for Ian.”
How foolish could a woman get? They didn’t need an extra mouth to feed. She bit back the words. Fiona couldn’t help being so weak. “Were you all right here last night?”
“Yes, I bolted the doors and windows and kept the rifle under the bed like you said.”
“Good, you're quite safe, really. Where's Lucy? I want to see her before I go.”
“She’s having a nap.”
They passed a pleasant afternoon together. Jo chopped up a pile of wood, enough to last a few days at least, and on finishing this task ruefully surveyed her blistered hands. Her back ached from doing too much at once, but the supply needed to be adequate for a few days in case Luke prevented her from coming over again.
In the middle of nailing a loose shingle back on the roof of the barn she heard Luke's savage snarl. “What the hell do you think you're doing up there?”
She nearly fell off the roof in shock. “What does it look like?”
He was mounted on the huge chestnut he usually rode. His shirt clung damply to his back and by the stock whip curled around his arm he must have been mustering cattle.
“Get down at once.” He dismounted and waited at the foot of the ladder. “You bloody little fool, are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Someone has to do it, Fiona can't.”
With his hands around her waist, he lifted her down the last couple of rungs. Instead of letting go, he covered her mouth with his own. When he finally raised his head his eyes smoldered with an angry passion.
“I don't like sweaty women who smell like common farm laborers.”
She raised her hand to smack his face but he caught it in a vice like, mid-air grip.
“What have you done to your hands?” She was surprised at his gentle touch as he fingered one of the large blisters.
“I chopped some wood.”