Sandra Hill - [Creole] (13 page)

August 25, 1870

Today I met my soul mate, and he’s a jerk…

Etienne smiled.
Jerk
. Selene had often used that word to describe his father. He supposed it was equivalent to that
male chauvinist pig
term Harriet had mentioned. Probably her cantankerous version of
dear
or
darling
.

He read further.

Etienne frowned. He was the aggrieved party here, not her. He was the one who’d been knocked unconscious, twice. He was the one whose personal property had been ransacked. He was the one saddled with an unwanted, opinionated, endlessly chattering responsibility.

Etienne decided that he might not strangle her after all for her slanderous remarks about his sexual inclinations. He sucked in his stomach; being on the run one way or another did keep a man lean and well muscled.

Well, he wouldn’t say that precisely. And what the hell was a crud stud? Probably the same as an MCP.

He skimmed through the other pages, and there were lots of them. Apparently Harriet liked to write almost as much as she liked to talk. He would return to them later, his headache making even the process of reading a painful chore. Besides, for now, he was most interested in her reaction to his Bible and the three pictures. He flipped to those sections of her journal.

Just as her two books had him wondering if time-travel was actually possible, his personal belongings—the Bible and the three pictures—had done the same to her. She was confused and frightened, as well she should be. Unfortunately, she looked to him for answers and a way out of her unwanted adventure.

And he had no answers.

Tossing the notebook to the floor, he removed his boots. Then he padded over to the table, where he poured a small glass of water from a carafe, dropping in one of Cain’s headache powders.

It was only six o’clock, still light outside, but Etienne felt a debilitating weariness. He needed to lie down. Until his headache passed. Until he slept a little. Until he understood who this woman was and why she’d landed in his life.

Should he wake her?

No, not yet. With the hammer pounding behind his eyeballs, he didn’t think he could stand her jabbering right now. She’d probably start right in lecturing him. Or want to talk about her theories on time-travel. Or hit him over the head again.

Just a little rest. Should he plop down on the fainting couch, which would be uncomfortable for his large frame, or should he ease into the ample empty space left on the bed? He had no trouble deciding.

What about clothing?
Should he remove his garments, as he usually did?

Hell, why not? She talks a great game. Let’s see if she throws in her chips or bluffs her way to the end when con
fronted with a real man in all his glory. Besides, I’d like to show her my full house, and my royal straight isn’t so bad either
. Etienne chuckled to himself. His headache must be melting his brain. Either that, or his sense of humor had been absent so long, it was making up for lost time.

Soon his headache eased. He lay on his back under the crisp sheets, his arms folded behind his neck, studying the ceiling. It was a moment out of time and he took great pleasure in it—a soft bed with goose-feather pillows, clean linens smelling of fresh air, a mild breeze rustling through the two open windows, the sound of a dove calling to its mate in the distance. He hadn’t always been so appreciative of the little things in life. A brutal war and a horrific prison had taught him well.

And there were other little pleasures in life that he cherished now, Etienne thought with a smile as Harry-Hat—he knew Harriet rankled when he misspoke her name—grew restless in her sleep and cuddled closer. Yes, there was the scent of gardenias in a woman’s hair, the feel of satiny skin in mysterious places, the wonderful purring sound a female made when she was pleasured, or the even more wonderful scream she released when satisfied.

So many little blessings in this world, and yet Etienne was so unhappy. Why? he wondered as a wide yawn overcame him. Why couldn’t he go back to the way he used to be?

Harriet threw one leg over his and squirmed against his side. With a resigned sigh, he put an arm around her shoulder and drew her warm body closer, her head resting on his chest.

She would be furious when she awakened in this position.

Good
.

In the meantime, he hoped he had one of her famous erotic dreams.

“
No!
Get them off! Get them off!”

Harriet awoke with a jolt to find herself in bed with Etienne. Dusky evening approached, but she could still see in the fading shadows. He was flailing his arms and legs about as if trying to whisk something off his body. In the process, he kicked off the sheet.

He was stark
—be still my heart—
naked. And she wasn’t much better, her silk wrapper having come unwrapped.

But she couldn’t be concerned about that now. Etienne was having a violent nightmare, and it must involve those Andersonville maggots he’d mentioned earlier.
The poor man!

She soothed him with whispers—“It’s all right now. Shhh. It’s only a dream”—and light caresses over his clenched jaw and jerking shoulders. Eventually, he whimpered and slumped into an exhausted sleep.

She tried to rise, but her long hair was caught under his outflung arm. And he’d managed to trap one of her legs between his. Wide awake now, she figured she must have slept at least four hours. Remembering how angry she’d been with Etienne for locking her in this room, she tried to call up the rage. But it had all drained out of her in witnessing his nightmare.

As he slept, his face showed a vulnerability that he masked with cynicism when awake. His full lips parted slightly. Like most dark haired men, he had a five-o’clock shadow, even though he’d shaved that morning.

I hate that he’s been hurt. By a war, or people, or just circumstances. But that’s crazy. I have no connection to him
.

She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a moan as she realized,
Yes, I do
.

Moving her hand from her mouth to his chest, she felt his heart beating strongly. And that touched her, too. He was a virile, healthy man. And he was hers.

Huh? He’s not mine. And I don’t want him to be mine. No, no. no!

Even so, it was with a proprietary air that she ran her fingertips lightly from the silky black hairs on his chest down to the vee at his waist, and lower. He was a big man—tall and slender and well muscled, but not pumped up like a bodybuilder.

So many scars! Were they the results of childhood scrapes? Or much worse?

Tears welled in her eyes at the pain he must have suffered. And she wished, for the first time in her life, that she could take another person’s suffering on herself.

Her hand had been resting, palm downward, on his flat stomach, very close to another interesting part of his body. And it wasn’t his long, furred legs that drew her now. Or the big, narrow, high-arched feet with the beginnings of a blister on each heel. His manhood had a beauty all its own.

She was about to touch—it she couldn’t help herself—when a hand clamped over her wrist. She glanced up, with dismay, to see Etienne’s eyes, wide open, and staring at her.

Using his grasp on her wrist as leverage, as well as fingers burrowed into her hair, Etienne drew her up so she lay half on her side, half on his chest, eye to eye with him. Her hair spilled out around them.

“Why are you weeping?” he asked softly.

“For you. For your pain. And your beauty.”

“Pity?” His eyes glinted with hurt, and his body tensed defensively.

She shook her head from side to side. “Not pity.”

He studied her face for a long moment, his chin lifted pridefully. She knew the instant he accepted her words, because his entire body relaxed. Then, releasing her wrist, he put his hand to her face, brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“I want to kiss you.” he said huskily. It wasn’t a request.

The words were like pellets in a pinball machine, racing to all the important targets in her body.
Ping, ping, ping
,
her defenses were crumbling. “I think I’ll die if you don’t.”

A small smile spread over his lips as he raised his head slightly, narrowing the distance between them. She smelled licorice on his breath—not an unpleasant odor. His lips were a hairbreadth from hers when he whispered a command: “Open.”

She complied instantly, never questioning his authority.

His kiss was violent in its tenderness. He used his lips and teeth and tongue to learn her mouth, turning her pliant and mewling for more. When she tried to deepen the kiss, demanding, “Harder,” he refused, nipping her jaw to show who was in control. He would obviously set the pace.

“Are you punishing me?” she moaned, though some remote portion of her brain reminded her that she was the one who had reason to be angry.

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“I can’t remember,” he rasped out with a laugh.

In a flash, before she could blink, he flipped her on her back and moved over her. Without breaking eye contact, he tore off her robe and tossed it to the side.

This time, when he kissed her, Harriet felt as if a storm had invaded her bed. He ravished her with hard kisses, then drained the life out of her with the heat of his thrusting tongue. Just when she thought she could bear no more, that things were happening too fast, he slowed and gentled. Then his kisses melted her with coaxing expertise.

Oh, he was a good kisser. A really good kisser.

She wanted to put her arms around him, to participate more fully, but he denied her efforts with a masculine growl. Harriet didn’t like being dictated to and she balked, wrapping her arms around his wide shoulders. “Steve,” she protested.

In a heartbeat, her hands were imprisoned above her head, pinned to the mattress by their interlaced fingers. Holding her eyes, he used his knees to spread her legs wide.
With slow, slow insinuation, he let his body weight settle over hers.

“I am not Steve Morgan. I am Etienne Baptiste.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken Steve’s name.

“Say it.”

“Etienne,” she breathed.

“This is not a dream,” he said between gritted teeth.

“I know,” she whispered. She could feel his arousal growing against the apex of her thighs, and it was nothing like her fantasies. This was so much more.

Her breasts peaked and ached. She tried to move from side to side to abrade them against his coarse chest hair.

He wouldn’t let her move.

“You don’t like losing self-control, do you, Harriet?”

She gasped at his too-perceptive assessment. That kind of knowledge gave him power, and Harriet grew alarmed. This was alien territory for her. Dangerous.

“What are you afraid of,
chérie?
”

“Nothing.” Why didn’t he just stop talking and do it?

“Did I tell you that I’m an expert in body language, too, Dr. Ginny?” he said smoothly.

Uh-oh!
She shook her head. She couldn’t speak.

“The pupils of your strange cat eyes are enlarged and very dark,” he whispered as he ran the tip of his tongue around his lips to moisten them. She followed its path like a hungry wanton. “Do you know what that means?”

“What?” At first, Harriet forgot what he’d asked. Then she remembered his question about dilated pupils. She should know the answer. But she was beyond rational thought.

“It means you’re about to climax,” he said boldly and bucked against her once. Only once.

That was all Harriet needed. To her shock and humiliation, she began to climax. A wild explosion of feeling rippled out from that place where he pressed against her, unmoving now. And all the time he watched her like a hawk with its prey.

She tried to escape his imprisoning hold—to force a response from him, or to escape.

He wouldn’t budge.

“Relax,” he coaxed, “Let it happen. I want to watch. You’re beautiful when you’re aroused. Your cheeks are flushed. You’re panting…”

Panting? Me?
She clamped her mouth shut.

He nipped her chin in playful chastisement. “So beautiful. Come for me,
chérie
, come…”

“No.” She resisted. Harriet had to be in control. She always had been in the past. If she surrendered now, she would be vulnerable. Dependent. “No, no, no.”

Determination sparked in his pale eyes. He moved himself against her slickness, side to side. Once, twice, three times.

Tears streamed down her face as she fought against this shameful weakness. It wouldn’t be so bad if he were as out of control as she. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were dark and he weren’t witnessing her vulnerability. He would use it against her, she just knew he would.

Leaning down, he kissed the side of her lips. Gently. A soothing caress meant to comfort her distress.

It only pushed her closer toward the edge.

“Not like this. I don’t want it like this,” she cried out. “Inside…I want you inside me.”

Oh, this was the worst kind of forceful seduction. Harriet felt like a traitor to herself and all womankind. She was actually begging a man to make love to her.

“Like this?” he teased, taking his erection in hand and placing himself at her entrance, no further.

Harriet screamed. She arched her breasts against his seemingly immovable chest and rocked her hips against him in fast, rhythmic, involuntary undulations. Flinging her head from side to side, she surrendered to the most cataclysmic orgasm of her life. Every inch of her skin was an erogenous zone, convulsing in ever-widening circles of ecstasy.

And when it ended, when she felt she had nothing more to give, she glanced up at Etienne, who watched her expectantly. To her alarm, his eyes were darkening into pools of arousal. His lips parted with soughing breaths.