Firestorm (14 page)

She swallowed and wet her lips. Her tongue was small, pointed, and pink. “I'm not hungry,” she said, her voice cracking.

“You haven't eaten yet,” he said, noting her golden coloring. “How did you get tan all over? Are you tan all over?”

Her eyes widened, the blue deepening, a blush coloring her high cheekbones.

“I've never seen a woman whose bosom wasn't white,” he murmured. “Unless, of course, she had naturally dark skin. You don't.”

Storm shifted on the bed, then looked around—for clothing, he knew. “Don't dress on my account,” he said. “You're perfect the way you are.”

There was a knock on the door. Brett glanced at her, waiting, one brow arched, while she slid under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. His mouth quirked again, and he opened the door. Peter brought in a tray and began to set the table. Another servant followed with champagne. Brett nodded his thanks and closed the door behind them. Glancing casually at Storm, he uncorked a bottle and poured two glasses, then moved to the bed, where she sat still covered modestly by the spread. He handed her the glass, feeling a flash of annoyance when she didn't move to receive it, merely tightening her grip on the bedding.

“Not thirsty?” he asked.

“Get out.”

He stared. Then he smiled, a cold, chilling smile. “Are you talking to me?”

“I'm not talking to the walls,” she said, her eyes flashing.

He sipped the champagne. “This is our wedding supper, and our wedding night.”

Her nostrils flared. “No.”

“Excuse me?” He was incredulous.

Her smile was nasty. “No. Get out. If I had known it was you, I would have bolted the door.”

He slowly put down the glass. “I see. You intend to deny me?”

“Yes.”

“I did not marry you to have a wife in name only. You are my wife, and you shall sleep in our marriage bed.”

“Never,” she ground out. “I hate you. Get out.”

He yanked down the covers, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her close. “Why do you insist on making this unpleasant?” he snarled into her face.

Tears came to her eyes then, making him curse and abruptly release her. She thumped against the headboard. “Leave me alone!”

He picked up her glass of champagne. “Drink this. It will put a rosier light on everything.”

She opened her mouth to refuse, but he gave her such a dark look that she shut it and took the champagne. He knew something was going on in her mind, but he didn't know what. “Drink it,” he repeated.

Storm closed her eyes. She wanted to throw the champagne in his face, better yet, claw out his eyes, but she was afraid to. She felt young and alone, naked and vulnerable, and the way he kept looking at her increased her fear.

“Storm,” he said, “there's no changing what's been done.”

His breath touched her face, and she opened her eyes
to see that he was very close, his eyes blazing. His lips descended, covering hers. She clamped her lips tightly together. His mouth worked on hers, gently but insistently, so unlike the hard, hurtful kiss he had given her in front of their friends after the wedding. But she would not yield—it would not come to that. She hated him. Then she felt his hand on her breast, tenderly fondling, and anger filled her veins. He hated marrying her, hated her, but he wanted to possess her. With a cry of rage, Storm twisted away, at the same time dashing the glass of champagne in his face.

He started, his eyes wide with shock, his face dripping. Storm leaped off the other side of the bed and watched numbly as he visibly tried to control his rage. He walked to the table with stiff strides, picked up a napkin, and wiped his face. Then he turned and left the room without a word.

She was trembling. Without a doubt, she knew, he would be back. Quickly she locked the door connecting their two rooms, then the one leading to the hall. She stood uncertainly in the center of the room, hugging herself, trying to stay calm, telling herself she had nothing to fear. But the fear would not go away.

Time crawled by. The minutes dragged, and she could hear Brett in the other room, no doubt changing his clothes. Then there was silence. What was he doing? What was taking him so long? She moved back to the bed, checked the contents of the drawer of the night table, and waited.

 

After ordering a bath, Brett stripped completely. He was so angry he didn't trust himself to return to her—he might hurt her. He had never hurt a woman before, but he wanted to beat her. He sipped two brandies to relax, then soaked in the tub, washing his hair, which was sticky with champagne. His anger began to fade, but in its place grew a
hard determination. He finished bathing, had another brandy, and slipped on a dark blue silk robe, belted loosely. He moved to the door between their rooms and unlocked it.

She was sitting in bed, still in the sheer, tantalizing lace underclothes, and she gasped and grew pale when he stepped inside. He smiled grimly. He was certainly not foolish enough to give his wife the means to lock him out of her chamber. He moved toward her, resolution in every step. And the sight of her, the smell of her, the knowledge of what was going to happen, of how he would possess her, inflamed and hardened him until passion consumed him. He stopped at the foot of the bed. She met his stare, her eyes wide and frightened, but he refused to entertain pity or compassion. She, not he, had brought them to this moment.

“It's hopeless to fight me,” he said hoarsely.

“I will fight you until I die.”

“You will enjoy this night.”

“You will have to rape me.”

“It won't be rape, I assure you.” He moved to the side of the bed.

She didn't take her eyes off his face, but her hand went to the drawer of the bedside table. To Brett, his senses overwhelmed with her, his lust painfully filling his loins, it was a confusing gesture. For the first instant when her hand came up, he thought it was to welcome him into her arms, and his heart jumped with excitement. Then, in the dim light, he saw that she was pointing a Colt six-shooter at his heart. He stopped.

“Get out.” Although her voice wavered, her hand did not.

“Put the gun down.” Disbelief laced his voice.

“No. We are not consummating this marriage. When Pa comes, we'll annul the marriage—if he doesn't kill you for what you've done.”

At first Brett didn't hear her, he was so angry that she would pull a gun on him and deny him his rights. He fought for control, fought and lost. He didn't think she'd shoot him, didn't think she was fast enough. He grabbed her wrist with lightning speed, and she moaned and dropped the gun. He kicked it away viciously, sending it slamming into the wall, then he grabbed her by the shoulders, making her whimper, and pulled her very, very close. “Don't you ever threaten me again,” he ordered, his teeth clenched, his lips contorted into a snarl. “Do you understand?”

“Damn you,” she cried, struggling to be free. She was strong, but no match for him. He tightened his hold until she gasped and went still. “I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you!” She started to cry.

He had been about to throw her beneath him and take her, certain she would soon be moaning in ecstasy. But her sobs were like ice water, reviving his sanity. Rigid with control, he released her. She rolled away from him onto her side.

“So you want an annulment?” he asked, his voice stiff and without inflection.

“Yes,” she said, sniffling. “Yes!”

“I thought you wanted to marry me.”

“No!” It was a passionate denial. She twisted to face him, her face tear-streaked, her eyes blazing. “They all lied to me. They said you wanted to do the honorable thing. I agreed, but only so I wouldn't shame my family. Now I realize I'd rather go home in disgrace than be married to you.”

He stood. He didn't know why anger was rearing its monster head again, threatening to make him violent. After all, he didn't want to be married any more than she did. They had both been duped. He nodded curtly. “Very well,” he said.

She was suddenly still, not even breathing.

“We will not consummate the marriage, have no fear. I am in complete agreement with you in this desire.” He couldn't smile. In fact, he felt as if he were suffering from lockjaw. “Good night.”

He strode out rigidly, forcing himself not to slam the door behind him, although it thudded with some force in any case. Then he stood very still in the center of his bedroom, and ran trembling fingers through his hair. He felt no relief at their solution to this mess, but assumed it was because he was still achingly stiff with desire for her.

She wanted an annulment.

Paul would have no reason to ruin him if her father agreed to it.

Brett shed his robe and pulled on his clothes, cursing angrily because his hands were shaking. Then he left the house. Yet he couldn't seem to get Storm's image out of his mind, in all her fury and tearstained glory.

The maid looked at him with stunned surprise, her eyes wide. “Mr. D'Archand!”

“Please tell Audrey I am here,” he said, stalking past the clearly upset girl to the parlor. He flung off his coat and helped himself to another brandy.

If Audrey saw other men, he didn't care as long as it didn't interfere with his own needs. He paid for her, her clothes and the house. He came first. If she was with someone now, he damn well expected her to get rid of him. With that thought in mind, he walked to the parlor doors and shut them firmly so no one would be embarrassed.

The maid returned to tell him madame would be with him shortly. Brett nodded and stared out the French doors into the small but pleasant garden. A huge oak tree growing very close to the house almost blocked his vision, but it didn't matter. Instead of seeing the azaleas, which were just coming into bloom, and the purple-flowered shrubbery, he saw Storm. Of course. How in hell was he going to get her out of his mind?

It was hard to believe she wanted an annulment. Every other woman in San Francisco would die to be in her place, but
she didn't want him
.

He swung around as the parlor doors opened and Audrey swept in, gorgeous as usual. She was wearing a ruf
fled silk robe in pink, with black lace edging, and Brett wondered briefly what she had on underneath it. Then, unfortunately, a flashing image of Storm clad in a lacy, virginial chemise and petticoats came to mind. He pushed the thought away.

“Brett!” Audrey's eyes were wide as she gracefully floated forward. “Dear, this is a surprise!”

“So I gathered,” he said dryly, accepting her kiss.

She stepped back to survey him. “Darling, this is your wedding night.”

He raised a brow. “So it is.”

Her face was a perfect ivory oval as she studied him searchingly, then smiled. “I am flattered.”

His expression told her the subject was closed, and Audrey knew him too well to pursue it. “Are you hungry, darling?”

“Yes,” Brett said, putting down the snifter. “But not for food. We'll eat later.”

Audrey smiled without reserve and took his hand. Brett followed her upstairs and into the bedroom. He was already unbuttoning his shirt—there was no need for propriety. Everyone in the small household knew his status, as they damn well better. He let the shirt drop to the floor.

“Let me help,” Audrey purred.

As usual, she smelled wonderful, spicy and exotic. Her hands were teasingly light on his flesh. He let her undress him, scowling at the thought that he, Brett D'Archand, was bedding his mistress, not his bride, on his damn wedding night. His anger increased.

He was naked, and Audrey straightened. Brett made no effort to hide his bad mood; there was no need to. Audrey had no right to interfere; she was only his mistress. But she was gazing at him with a combination of speculation and concern. Partly, he knew, because his expression was so dark, and partly because he wasn't ready for her, which was unusual. He remembered how hot he had been for
that little Texan and felt a surge of desire just thinking about her. He lifted Audrey into his arms and carried her to the four-poster bed.

As he had suspected, she was wearing nothing beneath the wrapper except black silk stockings and black lace garters with pink rosettes. Her small body was naked, ivory, and curved in all the right places. Her breasts were full, more than a handful, and as he cupped one perfect globe, his desire returned. He lowered his head to suck, thoroughly irritated when a too-vivid image of his bride came to mind. He sucked harder to chase it away, and when Audrey pushed him onto his back and slid down the length of him, murmuring words of endearment, her deft fingers clasping the hot length of his turgid maleness, praising size and prowess, he closed his eyes, her lips banishing all further wayward thoughts.

 

Something woke Storm. Instantly, she was fully awake, straining to hear. Nothing. She sat up, glancing at the clock—it was just after two in the morning. She grew stiff with remembrance and anger. Was
he
home yet?

She got up slowly, not making a sound, and slipped to the window overlooking the drive and gardens ahead, and to the left, the stable. Then she saw him.

He was strolling from the stables as if he had not a care in the world. She knew it was Brett even though the night was cloudy, only partly illuminated by the moon shining through drifting clouds and by intermittently spaced gas lamps. She looked at him very hard, but he was walking straight and true. He did not look drunk.

She went back to her bed, shaking with something that felt suspiciously like jealousy. Of course it wasn't, but where had he been from six in the evening until now? Her mind refused to answer while something sick and full of dread knotted deep in her belly.

She listened carefully and finally heard his footsteps
coming down the hall. They were firm and even—not staggering. They seemed to pause briefly outside her door, just for a moment, then went past. She heard his own door open and shut softly.

She sat in the middle of the bed and hugged her knees to her chest. I hate him, was her only thought. Yet she still listened as he moved quietly, undressing. She flushed, thinking of him removing his garments, one by one, until he stood naked. Would he put on that thin, blue wisp of a robe, the one he had worn into her room, barely belted, revealing a slice of hard chest, the dark mat of male hair?

Where had he been?

Storm lay back down, her heart pounding loudly. She didn't give a damn. Their marriage was a farce. Thank God he had left her alone. She hoped that wherever he went, he would go there every night! She sighed, and then became very still as her door opened. Immediately she shut her eyes, but not before she saw him standing there, a darker shape in the dim room.

As he moved toward her, Storm feigned sleep, trying to breathe evenly. He paused, she was sure, inches from where she lay. She could feel his gaze on her and was certain he could tell she was faking sleep. She heard him let out his breath, as if he had been holding it, then he bent closer. Even without his touching her, she could feel him, feel his body's warmth. His hand picked up a coil of her hair. Storm fought to keep breathing.

He dropped her hair and moved away, closing her door behind him. What in hell had that meant? Tears came to her eyes, but she furiously blinked them away.

She barely slept, but she stayed in bed pretending sleep until the sun came up. She heard Brett move about and finally leave his room, his footsteps passing her door, then fading into oblivion. Storm bounced out of bed like a shot, whipping on her wrapper, and flung open the door between their rooms. She paused.

His scent was strong in his room. She could still feel his presence. It was a very masculine room, with simple furnishings, not like the elegance of the rest of the house. There was a huge stone hearth. A large, dark blue Oriental rug covered the oak planking of the floor. The bed was four-postered and larger than hers, but the posters were short and thick and carved in a swirling pattern. The coverlet was silk, a simple geometric pattern that looked almost Indian.

His clothes from last night lay on a chair, and Storm started toward them.

At that moment, Peter stepped in, and they both froze, staring at each other in shock. He recovered first. “Good day, madame. Can I help you?” He was polite but clearly puzzled.

“No, I-I think I left a book in here,” she managed.

Peter's brows drew together; it was obvious he did not believe her. “If I find it, I will return it to your room,” he said in dismissal. Storm didn't move, then was dismayed when he began collecting Brett's clothes from last night. He straightened and looked at her, disapproval in his eyes.

Storm bit her lip, about to retreat. Then, on the floor, almost under the chair, she saw a white sleeve. Peter moved away from the chair, and Storm moved toward it. She pounced on the garment. It was Brett's shirt.

Peter stopped and looked at her.

“You forgot this,” Storm said, her heart beating hard as her gaze ran swiftly over the shirt she was twisting in her hands. She didn't see lip rouge. She quickly lifted the garment to her face, inhaling. All she could smell was Brett, but she sniffed again, then thought she could detect something faintly different, a strange spice…She couldn't be sure.

“Madame?” Peter's tone was neutral, but he was looking at her as if she were crazy.

She wished she could inspect the damn shirt at her leisure. Instead, she handed it over, smiling the best she could, and hurried back to her room. She sat down, still trying to discern if that spicy scent was tinged with floral. She knew one thing. Brett did not smell of spices. He smelled of leather, male sweat, cigars, brandy, and maybe horses. But not spices. Not slightly sweet spices. But it had been such a faint scent. Maybe she was making it up.

Storm dressed in a simple white blouse and a plain blue serge skirt. She wore only one petticoat, so the skirt hung close to her body. There was no sense wearing a hundred petticoats if she wasn't going anywhere, she thought bitterly. Summoning up courage and defiance, she went downstairs to the dining room, hoping to find Brett had gone. Her stomach started to rumble.

He wasn't gone. He looked up from the paper he was reading, his dark glance flicking over her, seeming to linger on her hips. He sat at the head of the rosewood table, which could easily seat twelve. He had obviously finished eating, but he was still drinking coffee. He set aside the paper. “Good morning,” he said politely. “Come in.”

Storm came forward then, embarrassed to be caught standing frozen like a frightened schoolgirl in the doorway. As she approached, she saw that a place was set next to Brett, on his right. He was standing. He held out her chair, and as she sat, she became acutely aware of his closeness, his distinctive scent. There was nothing spicy about it. She didn't look at him.

“Madame? Would you like fresh eggs this morning?”

Storm looked up at the butler. “Yes, anything is fine.”

He nodded and left. Brett said, “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” She realized he was pouring for her from a silver service. The roles were supposed to be reversed. He handed her the cup and saucer. Storm sipped gratefully. Why did he keep staring at her so?

“Did you sleep well?” he finally asked, his tone impersonal.

Storm looked at him. “Wonderfully.”

He cocked a brow, a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Do you walk in your sleep?”

She froze. “No, of course not.”

He tried and failed to suppress a genuine smile. “I could have sworn I saw you standing at your window last night.”

She ground her teeth together. “While you were getting home?”

He gazed calmly at her. “Yes.”

“You were mistaken,” she said as evenly as she could.

“Then I'm glad you slept well.”

“And how was your night?”

He was carefully impassive. “No different from any other.”

“How good for you,” Storm bit out.

“Are you angry?”

“Of course not.”

He smiled. “I think I know women well enough to know when they're angry. You are. And you were up last night—I saw you. Were you waiting for me? Did you miss me? Did you change your mind?”

Storm twisted in her chair to face him, glaring. “You conceited boor! I was not waiting for you—I heard something and woke up. I went to the window to investigate, and I saw you. There! Are you satisfied?” She was shaking with fury.

“There is nothing to be satisfied about. But you're still angry.” His dark eyes regarded her steadily.

“I'm upset,” Storm agreed, her mind fixing on a new, better, safer route.

His eyes brightened. His voice grew softer. “Why?”

She swallowed and looked at him. “I have to send another letter to my parents, one telling them that the first letter was all lies.”

They stared at each other. Brett finally spoke, his expression once more closing in, his eyes guarded. “I take it the first letter informed them of our marriage.”

She stared down at the tablecloth. “Yes.”

“And this letter will ask your father to come for you, for his permission to seek an annulment?”

“Yes.”

Brett slapped down his napkin, and stood abruptly. “Write it today,” he said harshly. “I will add my own letter as well.” He left then, with long, tense strides.

Storm's eyes blurred with tears as she watched his powerful form, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, so virile in the tight riding breeches, the loose shirt, the glistening black boots. The dining room doors were open, and once he went through, he was gone from her view. But a moment later she heard the loud slamming of the front door. Why was he angry? She had done nothing, absolutely nothing.

“Madame? Your breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Storm managed.

 

Supper was a tense, silent affair. Brett had stayed away all morning, then secluded himself in his study all afternoon. Which was fine with Storm. He did not make one attempt at conversation all through the meal, and Storm, feeling both hostile and miserable, refused to try. After all, their marriage was a farce. Soon it would be over. It could not be soon enough.

“Did you write the letter?” Brett asked, standing. They were the first words he had spoken to her since that morning.

“Yes,” she said. Thinking about the letter brought her suspiciously close to tears.

“Bring it to my study,” he said, walking out.

Storm stood and fumed. Had he ever asked anybody politely for anything? He had absolutely no manners. And
why did he want the letter? Obstinately, she decided she would not jump to his beck and call. She told Thomas, the butler, that she would like a bath and went up to her room.

The bathwater was brought, and her maid, Betsy, helped her out of her clothes. Storm allowed her to do so because she was too distracted thinking how awful life had become to protest. She let the girl pin up her hair, and she slid into the tub. Betsy started to leave. “No, don't!” Storm cried. She was afraid to be alone in her bath in case Brett came looking for her. Hopefully, he had forgotten all about the letter.