“Where is Henri now?”
“In Paris, but due back any day now. You will enjoy him.”
Sable noted the glow in Juliana’s eyes when she spoke of Henri, but she kept the observation to herself.
That evening after her bath, Sable sat alone in Raimond’s old room, nude beneath a loosely tied jade-green wrapper. She took a moment to inspect the new garments that had been delivered by the seamstress earlier in the day. The armoires were already stuffed, yet Juliana and Archer kept fitting her for more clothes. Sable had grown up owning no more than two dresses at a time, and she didn’t know whether to be delighted by all the beautiful things she now possessed or appalled by the excess.
She took down a gold ball gown. Walking over to the standing mirror, she held the expensive gown against herself to see how it might look. She fingered the sleeves, peered at the stitches in the hem. Hearing the doorknob turn, she looked up.
It was Raimond. She beat down her happiness upon seeing him again, knowing happy feelings had no place in this marriage; he didn’t want her or trust her, he’d made that quite clear.
Determined to maintain her distance, Sable rehung the gown, saying, “Good evening, Raimond.”
He closed the door behind him and entered, filling her senses with his presence. “Good evening. More clothes?”
“I keep telling your mother I have enough, but she and Archer refuse to listen.”
“Archer?”
“Yes, your brother has excellent taste. He chooses the fabric, tells me which designs will be flattering,
et voila
, on to the next shop.”
“My brother has been dressing you?”
“Yes. The shop girls say his mistress is one of the best-gowned women in the city.”
Raimond wondered why he suddenly felt the urge to throttle Archer.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No. I’d no idea Archer had so much time on his hands, is all.”
“He’s been very helpful.”
There was an awkward silence while she waited for him to state his business. When he didn’t, she fished for conversation. “Your mother didn’t think you’d mind me using your old rooms.”
“She is correct.”
He peered around. She’d redone the room a bit.
“I changed some things.”
A few of the older chairs had been reupholstered, and she’d replaced the heavy window drapes with fabrics in lighter, softer colors. To Raimond it appeared to be a woman’s quarters now. “I approve, though your own house will be ready soon.”
“There is no hurry. I am content here.”
Raimond was not content. From the moment he’d walked into the room, the urge to pull her into his arms had been battling against his defenses. For the last two weeks she’d occupied his every waking thought and every nocturnal dream. Exacting revenge no longer seemed paramount. Making love to her did. He could plainly see she had nothing on beneath the thin summer wrapper, and the thought of opening it and feasting on the sunbursts and stars within brought his manhood throbbing to life. Maybe if he allowed himself one more taste of her, he could cure himself of this thundering need and get on with his life.
Sable could see the intense desire brimming in his eyes. Even though she’d vowed to remain aloof, his smoldering gaze touched her in all the places he’d touched the last time they’d made love. In spite of the problems keeping them apart, neither of them seemed
able to mask feelings. It gave her hope. If she could feed his desire, maybe acrimony and mistrust could be burned away by the heat of passion. What would happen if she purposefully set out to seduce her husband? “Did you come to visit for a reason?” she asked him, meeting his gaze.
“I came by to check on you.”
His presence alone could make her melt like butter on a hot stove. “I haven’t run off with Juliana’s silver, if that’s your concern.”
“There was that, but I really came to see how you’re settling in.”
“I’m fine.”
He was dressed for going out. The tailored dark suit fit his masculine form flawlessly. The white shirt appeared snowy against his dark skin. She wondered how he would be spending the evening, and with whom. Pride kept her from asking.
Raimond couldn’t tear his thoughts away from making love to her again. The bare skin beneath her robe wouldn’t let him dwell on anything else. “Are you always nude in the evenings?”
“Do you wish me to be?”
Raimond’s manhood surged as if it had been caressed. Her eyes were fearless.
“You’re very provocative,
ma reine
.”
“Being provocative will intrigue you, Raimond. Being meek will not.”
Raimond’s hands ached to open her gown and caress the warm beauty it shielded. “Most men want their women meek.”
Sable felt her nipples blossoming in response to the heat rising between them in the quiet candlelight. “But you don’t.”
“Are you certain you know what I want?”
Once again she flashed fearless eyes. “That you are here offers a clue…”
He grinned. “You play this game well.”
He came over to where she stood in front of the low vanity table and raised her chin so he could commit her beauty to memory.
She told him softly, “I will not share you with a mistress, Raimond.”
He ran his thumb over her sultry bottom lip, so maddeningly slow that her eyes slid closed.
“Why not?” he whispered.
Then bending down, he touched his lips to hers in a fleeting but fiery kiss.
After he drew back, Sable could do nothing but float on the sweetness for a few moments. Finally she found the words to reply, “I am a queen and queens do not share…ohhh…”
His mouth had captured her nipple through the thin jade gown. The staggering teasing continued until she groaned with pleasure.
“Does Her Highness approve of this?”
He untied the wrapper and slid his warm palms over the already hardened buds of her breasts. They throbbed blissfully in response to the seductive circles he made while he kissed the pulsing point at the base of her throat. “Tell me, Your Majesty…do you approve?”
Her breasts were fairly singing under his potent mouth and hands. When he moved to drink from the arched column of her throat, they were left bereft, aching and damp. He teased kisses over her parted lips, and his hands slid down over her flaring hips, rubbing the sunbursts languidly.
He cupped her hips, letting her feel the singeing heat of his hot palms, then the thin cotton moving shamelessly and wantonly over the backs of her thighs and hips. He teased her brazenly, deliciously, filling her with such heated delight, she parted her legs so he could play as he pleased.
Raimond dallied leisurely, expertly. Unable to resist, he bent so his lips could sensually ply a sable-tipped breast. He savored the feel of the hard bud as much as
he did the damp, swollen gate of her core. The feel of her passion flowing so freely around his touch made his manhood surge with need.
“Lean back,
bijou
…” he instructed huskily.
Hazy with passion, Sable braced herself against the edge of the vanity table. As she did, he whispered hot, moan-evoking kisses over the points of her breasts and her fluttering throat. Using his palms to lead the way, he let his lips meander down the front plane of her soft body, worshipping as he went. Kneeling now, he curved his hands down her waist, and his tongue flicked over the small nook of her navel. Sable arched to the sparkling feel of it and of his palms sliding up and down her legs.
His hand drifted lower, over her hair, and slowly unveiled the jewel it sheltered. Her supporting arms trembled as he coaxed his queen to surrender her temple, tempted her to let him enter. His touch wielded such sultry magic that when his fingers found her fully, her body tightened and she crooned aloud. She didn’t care how brazen she appeared or how scandalously her legs were parted, she just didn’t want this to end.
Raimond knew he would never forget this encounter. The sight of the pleasure blooming on her face and the honey flowing between her golden thighs would be seared in his memory for all time. He placed a tender kiss against the marks banding her upper thigh, then drew his finger over the small, swollen jewel. The courtesans of Paris had taught him well; he knew that circles were best and that varying the pressure and rhythm could unlock a woman’s soul. He also knew something else…
Filling his hands with her silken hips, he brought her forward.
Sable was so buffeted by the intensity, she had no time to be shocked. Nothing in life had ever prepared her for such a tribute. All she could do was ride the storm and let him have his way. He parted her, loved
her. He treated himself to such a slow, erotic feast, it didn’t take long for
le petite morte
to crackle over her and tear his name hoarsely from her throat.
As she lay against the vanity, throbbing and pulsing, he began to undress. Raimond didn’t care about the engagement he had tonight. He wanted his wife and he wanted her now.
Sable sighed pleasurably as he entered her a moment later. The lulling pace of his rhythmic invitation pressed her bottom against the edge of the vanity, and she winced. He must have seen her small show of pain because he lifted her clear and she instinctively locked her legs around his dark waist.
They never made it to the bed. Raimond loved her there, standing in the middle of the room. With her pulsing so tightly around him, he fought off his own release. He wanted to enjoy her a bit longer, wanted to stroke her until she gasped his name, wanted to see if he could take her to the pinnacle again.
Sable fed on his raw male power; each blissful thrust increased her need. She lifted slightly for his kiss, then dropped her head back as the pace increased. She felt boneless in the large, strong hands guiding her hips so deliciously. He drew her back and forth, letting her savor the ride.
Raimond knew he couldn’t last much longer. When he felt her tighten in the beginning throes of release, his tenuous hold on his own satisfaction came crashing down. Gripping her hips possessively, he poured out his soul with a loud growl.
They made love again and again until the wee hours, and afterward, lying in bed too sated to move, he placed a good-night kiss on her forehead. In response, a very sleepy Sable snuggled close to his side and said as she drifted off, “See, you don’t really need a mistress.”
Raimond wondered what she’d say if he told her he’d had no appetite for his mistress since his return to Lou
isiana. Instead, he grinned and pulled her close. “Go to sleep, Your Majesty.”
So she did.
A few hours later, Raimond slipped from the bed that still sheltered his sleeping wife and dressed in silence. He’d come here last evening just to see how she was faring, not to make love to her until dawn. She was entirely too bewitching for her own good, he noted with irritation as he searched the floor for the trousers he’d discarded so hastily. He found them lying near the vanity table. Seeing the very prominent wrinkles did not help his mood, but he dragged them on.
As he did up the placket, he wondered how in the world he would explain to his mistress, Muriel, why he’d missed her birthday party last night. Muriel had been very understanding so far about his lack of interest in her since his return home. He doubted she’d continue to be so understanding upon learning she’d been stood up because he couldn’t resist his satin-skinned wife. Last night his mistress had been the very last thing on his mind. Only Sable, beautiful, seductive Sable, with her sunburst hips and her moon-marked breasts had ruled his thoughts. Just thinking about her—them—made him hard all over again. By all rights he should have turned her over to the authorities the moment he saw her. Instead he’d made love to her with all the passionate abandon of a man who’d been celibate for decades.
And he wanted still more. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough of her kisses, but even as he continued to desire her, a small voice kept reminding him that she’d betrayed him and the Union. Luckily, one of Randolph Baker’s contacts, a well-known Confederate provocateur, had been intercepted outside Richmond, and the papers outlining Sherman’s plans for Savannah had been found in his inside pocket. The man had confessed to having gotten the papers from Baker, but he’d refused to say anything else. He was subsequently jailed, but Baker couldn’t be found; Baker was not his true name, the army had dis
covered. According to the records, the real Randolph Baker of Boston had died at Little Round Top.
Raimond looked over at his sleeping wife. Had she really been involved with the spies, or had she been a victim of circumstances beyond her control, as she claimed? He didn’t know the answer, and last night he hadn’t cared.
He’d cared that night back at the camp, though. After being slugged from behind by Baker, he’d come to on the dirt floor with a very worried Andre kneeling beside him. After helping Raimond to the cot, Andre had looked through the rifled chest, found the coin bag empty and the slim gold bracelet. Placing the bracelet on the cot at Raimond’s side, Andre had moved to the papers strewn all over the desk. He’d determined that five signed passes and the briefing papers on Sherman’s November 15 march toward Savannah were missing. The announcement had worsened Raimond’s already splitting head, and he’d known he had to report the matter.
He wasn’t able to do so until days later. The Rebel attack on the camp that night had kept everyone too busy battling the mounted guerrilla force, putting out fires, and burying the dead. He rode into Atlanta at the first opportunity to file his report with army command. While there, he was informed that because of the extensive damage the camp had received, the government planned to close it down. Less than a week after Sable’s betrayal, Raimond, Araminta, and Andre had reined their horses east and headed for the Sea Islands of South Carolina.
He’d stayed there helping the freedmen build houses and plant cotton until he’d come home this summer. Sable had been the last person he’d expected to find here, under his mother’s roof.
After pulling on his wrinkled shirt and coat, Raimond moved soundlessly back over to the bed where Sable slept unawares. Part of him wanted to strip and climb back beneath the sheets so he could be there when she
awakened, but the rational side of himself demanded he maintain his distance.