Surrender to a Stranger (29 page)

Numbly she accepted it and took a hearty gulp. The liquid burned a path of fire down her throat and spread into her chest, instantly filling her with a delicious sensation of warmth. She sighed and took another swallow, determined to take all the strength she could from it.

“Feel better?” Armand asked casually. He was slowly lighting candles around the room, acting as if he were in no hurry whatsoever to get her into his bed.

“Yes.” Jacqueline clutched the glass to her chest and watched as Armand performed his task. With his back to her, absorbed in the act of lighting the room, he seemed far less predatory and threatening than she had imagined he would be. She had no idea what he would do once he decided the room was lit to his satisfaction. She decided to use this moment of reprieve to make her position clear. “Monsieur St. James, there is something I think you should know….” she began, surprised that her voice sounded so strained and hollow. She hesitated, thinking he would say something to encourage her to continue. He did not. She took another sip of her drink and decided to try again. “I am afraid I have never done this before,” she blurted out nervously.

“I know.” Having lit the room to a soft glow, he walked back to the fire and added another log. He could see she was terrified, and he cursed himself for it. No doubt her only previous experience with lovemaking was when that bastard tried to rape her in her cell. God knows what she thought he was about to do to her. It would be different for her this time, he promised himself. But he had to go slowly. He lifted the poker and began to adjust the logs, which were already blazing and did not require attention in the least.

She waited for him to do something. Or was she supposed to do something? She was not certain. She decided he had not understood her meaning. Swallowing every ounce of her pride, she timidly confessed, “Monsieur St. James, I am afraid I do not know what it is you wish me to do.”

He did not turn, so she could not see him smile. “Jacqueline,” he began, his voice low and gentle, “it would please me a great deal if you would call me Armand.”

And then he turned to her. His face was lit by gold and apricot light from the flames of the fire and in that instant all she could focus on was how utterly, unbelievably handsome he was. His rugged features could not have been more perfect had they been sculpted from marble. His hair was the color of copper, and gold, and every imaginable variation in between. His eyes were dark, more emerald tonight than blue, and glittering with an intensity that burned right through her, revealing something of himself that she had never seen before. Desire. Hunger. Need. For her. So powerful it wrapped itself around her from across the room and flooded her with a thousand sensations, suddenly stripping her of her ability to think clearly.

“Jacqueline,” Armand called, his voice low and soothing, “come here.”

Hypnotized by the velvety sound of his voice, she obediently crossed the room to him, her breath coming in little shallow puffs, her body awakening with prickles of anticipation and fear. She stopped and stood in front of him, her eyes locked with his, her blood racing through her veins. She stared into the hard glitter of his eyes and waited, waited for him to wrap his arms around her and crush her against him, or to push her against the wall and wrench her skirts up to her waist, or perhaps to lift her high into the air and carry her over to his bed, claiming her as if she was something that was to be conquered, a trophy that he had long wanted and was finally his.

“It would please me if you would remove my jacket,” he said simply.

She looked at him in surprise, utterly confused by his request. His expression was calm, still intense, but rigidly under control. Too grateful to question his tactics, she lowered her gaze to his chest and slipped her fingers beneath the lapels of his evening jacket. She slowly eased the garment over his enormous shoulders and down his arms, allowing it to drop carelessly on the floor. That task done, she looked up at him for further instructions.

“And now my waistcoat.”

Her fingers obediently reached out and set to work on the shiny gold buttons that held his waistcoat closed. Once they were freed from their holes, she opened the garment and deftly slipped it over his shoulders and down his arms, permitting it to fall on the floor.

“And my shirt.”

This, Jacqueline realized, was going to require a little more work. She studied his cravat for a moment before deciding which end to pull. Having selected one, she gave it a firm tug, and was delighted when the snowy linen fabric easily unraveled. She then removed the studs from his cuffs and left him for a moment to place them carefully on his desk before continuing. It was only when she began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt that her fingers began to tremble and became clumsy. One by one the buttons were slowly released, and the shirt began to open and reveal the powerful wall of muscle that lay beneath it. Reminding herself firmly that she had seen his chest before, that night in Paris when they had shared that tiny room and that even tinier bed at the inn, she yanked up his shirtfront to release the fabric that was tucked into his breeches and undid the last button. She could feel the heat of him emanating across the few inches that separated them. Her own curiosity began to mix with a strange desire to reach out and lay her fingers across the hard muscles of his chest. When she suddenly realized that something within her
wanted
to touch him, she stopped.

Armand felt as if he was going lose the thin thread of control he had managed to carefully maintain as she undressed him. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and cover her with kisses, to strip off her clothes and touch her and taste her and worship her until she was hot and moaning and senseless with pleasure. Just the slightest touch of her delicate hands as she eased him out of his clothes, the faint scent of her shimmering hair as she bowed her head to her task, the soft, silky rustle of her dress as she walked away from him to place his shirt studs on his desk, everything about her was making him insane with the need to have her. But he knew she was afraid, and he was determined to ease her fear. By allowing her to go slowly, by giving her a measure of control, he was empowering her, making her an equal partner in this voyage of discovery. He believed this would lessen her fear while giving her own desire a chance to awaken. He only hoped he could maintain his control a little longer.

“Jacqueline,” he whispered hoarsely, “it would please me if you would remove my shirt.”

His voice seemed strained, shaken, as if he was not feeling well. She raised her eyes to his in confusion. And saw the raw, barely leashed need that filled his gaze with fire as he stared down at her. His body was rigid with tension, his eyes were clear and focused, yet he did not reach out for her, he did not move toward her, he did nothing that might frighten her or pressure her. And suddenly she understood. He did not want to simply use her for his pleasure, the way Nicolas had that night in her cell. He did not want to force her to give in to him. He did not want her to give in to him at all. No, he wanted something much, much more than that.

He wanted her to want him.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Armand looked into her eyes, smoky gray, reminding him of the clouds that roll across the ocean before a summer storm. He saw her lips, trembling slightly, like the soft petals of a poppy quivering in a warm breeze. He knew she was not asking why he wanted her to remove his shirt. She was asking why he wanted her and, more importantly, why he wanted her to want him. They had an agreement. He knew she would honor it. Her wanting him was not part of that bargain, nor was it necessary to see the act completed. But for him it had become essential. He knew he could sweep her into his arms and kiss her and touch her until her body released her mind and her resistance passed. He had started to do that the other night, and God only knew how far he would have gone if Laura Harrington had not walked in. But it was not enough to simply seduce her. He wanted to know, right from the start, that some part of her wanted him, needed him, the way he needed her.

“I do not know why,” he admitted quietly. “Does it matter?”

She studied him a moment, her mind swirling with conflict. She had agreed to give him her body. For one night. She had not agreed to enjoy it. She still was not convinced she was going to. But something between them had changed, although she was not sure when or how it had happened. She was attracted to him. She could not deny it. He was handsome. Confident. Clever. He had saved her life. Just for the money, of course, but the act had required an enormous amount of daring all the same. He was common. He was beneath her. He despised her class and her world. But he had protected her when she was in danger, and he had cared for her when she was sick. He had forced her into this bargain. Hadn’t he? She was not so sure anymore. He wanted her to want him. Why? What did it matter to him? A tempest of feelings were rioting within her. His shirt. He wanted her to remove his shirt. And more than that, she wanted to remove it, and to lay her hands upon the warmth of his skin. Beyond that, she was not going to think.

She reached out, her hands trembling, and laid her palms against the solid muscles of his chest. He felt warm against the coolness of her fingers, warm and smooth and hard, as hard as steel. Hesitantly she began to trace the contours of his chest, fascinated by the tawny hair that grew there. Her fingers brushed lightly against his nipple and it immediately tightened in response. Intrigued, she gently caressed the other one, and this time she heard Armand inhale a quick breath. She looked up in confusion and saw him staring down at her, his eyes glittering with need, his mouth drawn in a tight line. Encouraged by the effect she was having on him, she boldly reached up and slowly slipped his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, letting the linen drop to a heap on the floor.

His skin was golden bronze in the light of the fire; it looked as warm as it felt. His chest and shoulders and arms were solidly layered with muscle. She let her fingers trail over him, around his enormous shoulders, across his massive chest, down the flat length of his stomach, allowing herself to become familiar with the rigid patterns the muscles formed beneath the velvety surface of his skin. All the while Armand simply stood there, allowing her to explore his body, which did not seem nearly as terrifying as she had thought it would be, but instead was sleek and powerful and exciting. Her touch grew more confident, firmer, seeking to elicit some response from him. But his arms remained anchored at his sides and he did not reach out to her. Torn between the need to feel that this was not her choice, that she was doing this only because she had to, and the even greater need to feel Armand’s arms wrapped tightly around her, she hesitated. She looked up at him, her lip trembling slightly, her eyes filled with uncertainty.

Armand looked down into the magnificent depths of her silvery eyes. He could see she was unsure, that she wanted something more to happen, but she did not want to be the one to initiate it. And so he began to lower his lips to hers, slowly, seeking not to frighten her, trying to remain in control, wondering how he would keep from crushing her against him the minute he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. And suddenly she lifted her arms up and looped them around his neck, pulling him down to her mouth and pressing her slender body against his bare skin with an intensity of desire that left no doubt that she wanted him, that she was not simply doing this because of a bargain they had struck. She let out a little moan as she opened her lips to his, and in that instant reason abandoned him, and nothing mattered except that she was here, offering herself to him, and everything else, past and future, could damn well go to hell.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him as his mouth took possession of her lips. His tongue slid into the sweet heat of her, and she responded with a little sigh, instinctively arching her soft body against his as her own tongue awakened and began to tentatively explore his mouth. Her scent intoxicated him; she smelled of citrus and roses, fresh and light, like a garden that was just beginning to bloom. His hand reached up to touch the softness of her skin, tracing a path along her satiny cheek, up the fragile line of her jaw, and around the perfect shell of her ear, and then it plunged deeply into the silk of her blond hair, shaking loose the pins that held it in place. It was not long, but it was gloriously thick and full, and he ran his fingers reverently through it, remembering the moment she had shaken it loose for him in her cell, and how it had pained him to cut it. He had risked his life to save her, and he would do it again in a second, for he could not bear the thought of her ever coming to harm. She was his, if not for him she would not be alive, and the thought filled him with a fierce wave of possessiveness as his hand released her hair and he began to explore the soft curves of her body.

Jacqueline pressed herself against Armand as he touched her all over, tasting him, clinging to him, rubbing her fingers against the sandy surface of his jaw, and moving her mouth over his again and again. She threaded her hands into his hair and pulled the ribbon loose, releasing the coppery locks onto his shoulders, taking pleasure in the fact that she could explore him in the same way he was exploring her. His hand cupped her breast through the fabric of her dress while the other grasped her hip and pulled her against his hardness, and to her surprise she was not shocked or frightened, but instead she found pleasure, and instinctively she began to rub herself against him to increase the sensation. In reaction to her boldness he moaned and began to swiftly attack the fastenings of her dress, deftly unhooking them with the speed of a man who is extremely familiar with the intricacies of a woman’s gown. If that should have bothered her she did not care, because all she knew was that she wanted to be closer to him, she wanted to feel her skin against his, she wanted his fingers to caress her without any barriers in between. And so when the gown was lying limp about her shoulders and the ties of her petticoats had been released, she stepped back and allowed him to ease the garments down, listening to the swishing sound they made as they collapsed into a pool of black and cream silk at her feet.