Rendezvous (9781301288946) (30 page)

Her voice faded to silence. For a long
time Sinclair said nothing, but she was aware of how close he stood
to her, drawing comfort from his nearness.

"How long did you stay in Paris after
Jean-Claude had gone?" he asked.

"Until the summer of ninety-eight. The
Terror was at its worst then, so many innocent people proscribed.
Baptiste and I got a little reckless trying to help and were
caught. I was imprisoned in the Conciergerie, an experience I never
care to repeat. That I would be found guilty was a foregone
conclusion.

"I would have taken that long ride down
the Rue St. Honoré myself except that Robespierre was so obliging
as to make himself unpopular. Shortly after he was executed, those
he had had arrested were set free. I didn't wait for anyone to
change their minds. I left Paris the same day and have never been
back until now."

She rested her head against the cool
pane of the glass. "I returned to England and lived the best I
could until I met up with Merchant. I decided it was better to
become a royalist spy than turn whore. So there you have it, the
whole dismal story of my life. Not very impressive, is it? I
sometimes feel as if it would have made no difference to anyone if
I had not been born at all."

Sinclair stepped behind her, resting
his hands on her shoulders. He began to knead the tension from her
muscles. "I doubt if those whom you helped save from the guillotine
would say that."

"Perhaps not," she murmured, soothed in
spite of herself by Sinclair's touch. "But I so wish the good
memories would outlive the bad. At least that would be something to
hold on to on a long dark night."

Sinclair turned her to face him. "You
could hold on to me, Angel."

He made no move to force her, only
beckoning her with his eyes. Belle responded to that unspoken call,
winding her arms about his neck. How good it felt to be held by
him, his fingers stroking her hair.

Belle sensed that he would have
restrained himself to just that, offering her comfort alone. It was
she who sought more. Raising her face, she invited his
kiss.

He brushed his lips against her brow,
her temples, her cheek. Belle closed her eyes, savoring the warm
contact, dreading that he might stop, draw away as he had done
earlier today after being interrupted by Paulette.

"Sinclair," she whispered. "Help me,
please. Help me make it through this night."

Never in her life had she begged, never
had she asked such a thing of any man before. But she felt no
shame, no wish to call back the plea that had escaped her. She knew
that Sinclair would understand.

He pressed his mouth to hers in a
gentle kiss, then swooped her up in his arms to carry her
upstairs.

From the beginning Belle had refused to
allow herself to imagine what it would be like to make love with
Sinclair. If she dared any thought at all, she supposed that
because the physical attraction between them coursed so strong,
they would come together in a feverish rush.

She was bemused when Sinclair's first
action upon entering her bedchamber was to tuck her into bed,
pulling a coverlet snugly about her shivering form.

While she watched from the bed, he
gathered logs and rekindled the fire upon the hearth until the
flames crackled, sending out waves of heat to ward off the chill of
the room.

A smile, part amusement, part gratitude
tugged at Belle's lips. What an eminently practical man Sinclair
was. When he had the fire going, he went about the room, lighting
lamps and candles, until the chamber glowed, the shadows dispelled.
It was almost as if he knew-

The flickering firelight illuminated
the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes and the
intensity of his eyes. Mesmerized, Belle studied his every movement
as he piled on more logs, the way the muscles of his back rippled
beneath his linen shirt, the striking contrast the white fabric
made against his bronzed skin.

He spread out a downy coverlet and
piled pillows before the hearth before returning to her side to
offer her his hand.

"Milady?" he said, his teasing drawl
coming out hoarse.

Belle slipped her hand in his and
followed him as though she walked in a dream. They stood facing
each other before the fire. Although he did no more than trace the
contours of her cheek with his fingers, Belle felt the beginnings
of desire flicker to life inside of her, a desire that seemed to
run far deeper than the wants of her flesh. She had a strange
feeling that she had been waiting a long time for this
moment.

Sinclair brushed back her hair,
allowing the strands to cascade over his fingers as though reveling
in the feel of it.

"Belle," he said, his face more solemn
than she ever remembered. "I don't want to take advantage of—" He
drew in a deep breath. "What I am trying to say is, you don't have
to offer yourself to me to make me stay with you. I could simply
hold you in my arms until morning."

"Could you?" she challenged softly. She
ran her fingers slowly up the hard plane of his chest, feeling the
thud of his heart beneath the crisp linen of his shirt.

His lips crooked into a reluctant
smile. "No, likely not, but it was a most noble
impulse."

"I don't want you to be noble,
Sinclair." She wound her arms about his neck, pressing close to
him. "Not tonight."

He caught her hard against him, his
mouth descending over hers. He coaxed her lips apart, invading her
with the fiery sweetness of his tongue, swirling in slow tormenting
circles. The heat of his body seared her even through her
nightgown.

As of one accord, they sank down to the
coverlet. Sinclair tumbled her back against the pillows. Bending
over her, he explored her face and the column of her neck with
feathery kisses that sent lashings of fire through her
veins.

She began to undo the buttons of his
shirt one by one. The material parted, falling away to reveal the
crisp dark hairs matting his chest. Belle slipped the shirt down
his arms, letting it drop to the floor.

She ran her hands over his hard muscled
flesh and felt a quiver course through him. He undid the ribbons of
her nightgown, slipping it off her shoulders until she lay naked
beside him.

Then he stood to remove his breeches,
easing the cloth down over the taut line of his hips, past the lean
hardness of his thighs. He towered naked above her in the full
glory of his manhood, leaving her in no doubt as to the extent of
his arousal.

He paused a moment to stare down at
her. "You are beautiful, Belle," he said hoarsely. For once the
compliment did not ring hollow in her ears.

She remained quite still, making no
self-conscious effort to cover herself, permitting Sinclair to
devour her with his eyes. For perhaps the first time in her life,
she experienced a genuine gratitude for the perfections of her
form, grateful because of Sinclair's response.

He sank back down beside her and
hungrily pulled her into his arms with a kiss that was long and
deep. The fire that blazed upon the hearth behind them seemed as
nothing beside the flames Sinclair stirred inside her.

He sought her lips again and again, the
softness of her hips and breast molding to the hard length of him.
His fingers whispered over her flesh, exploring her most intimate
curves, rousing her wherever he touched.

Who would have thought, she marveled,
that he could be so tender—Sinclair Carrington, that arrogant
rogue, that teasing rakehell.

Jean-Claude had ever been a gentle
lover, approaching her like a pilgrim to a holy shrine. Belle had
once teasingly accused him of making love to her as if she were the
Virgin Mary. He had been deeply shocked by her
blasphemy.

But for all his gentleness, there
remained no doubt that Sinclair came to her as a man to a woman.
When he lowered his mouth to her breast, teasing the pink crest
with the roughness of his tongue, she was pierced with longing so
fierce, she nearly wept. How she did need this man's loving,
perhaps too much.

Yet for all his expertise, Sinclair
felt more awkward than he ever had in his life. Never had his
partner's pleasure meant so much to him. Curbing his own raging
desires, he deliberately prolonged the love play until it became
the most delicious torment to them both.

"Now," Belle cried, her nails raking
his back. "Please, Sinclair, take me now."

She opened herself to him, and he could
no longer resist the invitation. He eased himself inside her, his
own pleasure heightened by the sight of her flushed features, so
beautiful.

He began to move slowly at first.
Moaning, Belle rose to meet his thrusts, urging him on to a faster,
more frenzied tempo. Fighting against his own climax, he sought to
bring her to the peak of her desire. He knew when she had reached
it, for she flung back her head, emitting a soft cry of
ecstasy.

Only then did he give way to his own
passion, which had mounted to the point of pain. The release was
shattering and sweet. He collapsed, spilling his seed deep within
her.

For long moments after, he held her,
burying his face against the softness of her throat, her heart
thundering in rhythm with his own.

Have no regrets, Belle, he prayed
silently, for I have none. He knew not how long they lay there,
lost in each other's embrace. When he felt Belle stir, he raised
his head to seek out her reaction now that all passion was
spent.

She smiled tremulously and stroked his
hair back across his brow behind his ear. "Thank you,” she
whispered.

Her simple expression of gratitude
tugged at his heart. He cupped her hand in his and pressed a kiss
against the upturned palm.

"For what?” He chuckled. “I was not
exactly a disinterested party. I had a few selfish desires of my
own, you know."

She shared his laughter, but sobered
immediately. "I fear it is I who has been the selfish one. I want
you to know that I have not just been using you because I felt
lonely and afraid. Tonight has meant more to me than you could ever
know. I only wish—" She paused ruefully. "I only wish I could say
more to you than that."

"Hush, Angel." He silenced her with a
quick kiss. "I don't expect you to pledge your undying devotion
simply because I made love to you."

"The only man I have ever made such
promises to was—"

"Yes, I know," he said when she was not
able to finish. A dull ache throbbed near the region of his heart,
but he managed to shrug it off. He cradled her closer. "You keep
your memories of Jean-Claude. I don't mind, for it's my arms you
are in right now."

Crooking his fingers beneath her chin,
he tipped up her face. "We are practical people, you and I, Belle.
Neither of us believe in forever, but we both know what has
happened between us tonight is very rare indeed. Let's not spoil it
by trying to offer apologies and explanations."

She gazed back at him, her eyes wide
and searching. Then she nodded slowly, moving closer to accept his
kiss. Locked once more in each other's embrace, it did not take
long for the passion to build again.

This time Sinclair scooped Belle up and
carried her back to the bed. As he began to caress her, she stopped
him, gently forcing him onto his back.

"No, Mr. Carrington," she murmured,
smiling down at him, "This time it's my turn to drive you to the
brink of madness.”

Propped up against the pillows, they
watched the dawn break over the windowsill, the rosy-gold light
creeping across the carpet to where they nestled beneath the
coverlets. Cradled against the lee of Sinclair's shoulder, his
strong arms locked about her, Belle sighed deeply. Never had she
expected to view the arrival of morning as an intrusion.

With the cold light of day, now will
come the regrets, she thought, the confusion, the embarrassment.
She waited but she felt none of those dreaded emotions, nothing but
this wondrous sensation of contentment. Day or night, to be lying
here in Sinclair's arms seemed the most natural thing in the
world.

She felt the warmth of his breath
against her curls, so even and deep, she wondered if he had fallen
asleep. Before she could raise her head to glance up at him, he
stirred, depositing a kiss upon the top of her head.

"I should be stealing back to my own
room," he said. But he only held her tighter, making no move to do
so.

"Why?" she murmured teasingly. "Are you
yet trying to protect my reputation?"

"No, simply to let you get some sleep.
You look exhausted. You did not get any rest at all last
night."

She laughed. "But for once it was
because of the right reason."

She felt his smile as he buried his
face against her hair. Shifting slightly, she met his questing lips
with a kiss that was chaste, but rife with warm memories of all
they had shared the night before.

Drawing back, she caressed the stubble
of beard that roughened his cheek and the stubborn line of his jaw.
She liked the stark contrast he made to the silken femininity of
her bed, his dark hair tumbled against the pillow, the hard
musculature of his frame, the swarthy cast of his skin. But she
also noted the deep hollows beneath his eyes.